Series: Across Seasons
by Valyssia
Summary: Questions can be dangerous. *Femslash*
1. Crossed Wires

**Summary:** Questions can be dangerous.

**Rating:** FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Pairing:** This is definitely Willow/Buffy, but it isn't Buffy/Willow. Buffy's clueless, as usual.

**Word Count:** 4,767.

**Beta:** Howard Russell.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

**Author's Note:** This plot bunny has been sitting around collecting dust since before I started this series. It comes from an idea that Howard Russell had years ago that never came to fruition based on this Xander quote from the episode _The Witch_: "Alright. Into battle I go. Would you ask her out for me? No. Man. Me. Battle."

* * *

**Crossed Wires**

* * *

She's doing that thing. That thing she does where she's right in front of me, but she's nowhere to be found. Something at the end of the hall is more important than me.

I hate that thing. If it wasn't for that thing, this'd all be over. Instead, I got to listen to Xander beat himself up. A day of that would drive anyone to act.

And day after day…?

I sigh. Extreme measures just don't seem that extreme anymore. I need to get this over with. Someone needs to ask.

All I need now is the courage.

I've been trying to tell myself I'm doing this because I'm a bigger person, but that's just not true. I want her to say 'no.' And she probably will because of me. She knows how I feel about him.

So much for my courage.

But what do I do if she says 'no'? What do I do with that information? Will it change anything? Can I break the news to Xander? Can _I_ let him down gently?

No. He'd probably hate me for that.

I can't really advise him either. Trying to steer him would end badly too. If she says 'no,' nothing will change. I'll have to do what I've been doing. I'll listen, I'll support him—though I'm not very good at that 'cause this is the last thing I want—and when he finally finds the courage, I'll comfort him.

I'll know. That's the thing that will change. I'll know that I can have him all to myself…if he ever notices me.

I need to know for sure, so I have to be really honest with her.

But she might say 'yes' if I am. What then?

Well, at least one of us will be happy. I want that. I want for one or more of the three of us to actually be happy, even if their happiness means I'm unhappy. I truly want that.

But I don't. I really, really don't.

My brow's all scrunchie.

She doesn't notice. She's moved on to the next distraction. And I even said, 'Hi.' I acted like I wanted to talk. I was engaging. There were pleasantries. I—

I'm putting this off. I've been over all of the scenarios—all two of them—a zillion times in my head. They haven't changed. I had the same doubts yesterday that I still have today.

I have to believe that this is a good thing. It's the right thing. Besides, he asked me to. He wants me to help.

'Kay, so…moment of truth…and I'm nibbling at the dry skin around my thumbnail. I stop that. It's an icky nervous habit. I need to ask the silly question. We need to talk. Instead of that, she's ignoring me and I'm eating my hand.

I rally my nerve and find my voice. "Buffy." Good start. No squeaks. She even faces me. Now for the hard part. "Would you like to go out, uh—?"

"Sure, Will, when?" she replies without missing a beat. She doesn't even have to think about it.

I didn't get a chance. She totally cut me off. My mouth's still open. I shut it.

I was gonna say—I was s'posed to say…_with Xander_.

She wants to go out with _me_?

Of course she wants to go out with me. I'm her friend. That's what friends do. We go out. We see movies. We get coffee. We talk. We listen. We…

So, how do I—?

She's looking at me. Like _really_ looking at me now. Giving me that look—that 'I'm waiting, the clock's ticking, what's up with you, why are you so weird' look.

"I've gotta get to class," she says. Her demeanor positively oozes impatience.

I should add that part—the part about Xander.

"Oh, uh…"

I said that. I didn't mean to say that. I should fess up. I should tell her—

"So, Saturday?" she offers.

"Saturday," I hear myself confirm and can't really believe that I—_I_ was the one who said that. I said it brightly, happily—

She turns away, glancing over her shoulder to add, "It's a date." She even gives me one of those smiles—those cute little half-smiles that are just—

She's a vapor trail.

And I'm still standing here like an idiot. Her choice of words bowls me over. I know it's a common turn of phrase, but I just can't help it. We have a _date_. A Saturday night—_date _night—kind of date. _She_ picked Saturday. Maybe that just means she doesn't have anything better to do.

Maybe, but that doesn't stop my knees from being all gooey. They're doing what they do when she looks at me that way and…

Uh…

Me and my gooey knees turn and shamble through the doorway into Mr. Fulton's English class. It's a miracle I don't bust my butt. He smiles when he sees me.

I say, "Hi," as I pass him on the way to my desk. Or not so much 'say' as 'mumble.'

No one else even looks at me, but I'm used to that. I take my seat—my usual, strategically chosen seat—along the wall and halfway back. The mean kids like to sit in the back. Here I don't have to look at them, but I'm not right up front. Upfront makes me feel exposed. I only have one neighbor and a nice window to look out of. It's a good seat. I do what I can to get by.

And the teachers mostly let me.

I take out my book and the homework that's due and open my notebook to the correct page. I'm ready. Or I look it. The last thing I really am is ready. I stare at my notes and all of the squiggly little colored lines blur.

It's not fair. My heart's still fluttering, there's a lump in my belly and my mouth feels pasty. I should've gotten a drink before I sat down, but walking to the water fountain would've been—

I sat down. My knees aren't so rubbery when I'm sitting.

The desk next to me squeaks. Amanda just sat down too. I wonder if her knees are all wishy-washy.

I doubt it. She's not as silly as I am. She doesn't have two friends and two crushes. That's just me. How can I have two friends and two crushes—both the same—with the same people? Do I just fall for anyone who pays attention to me?

Did Mr. Fulton just say something about the homework?

No, uh…

No, he's talking, but he's not talking about that. I open my book. I think he wants us to do that. I have no idea what page, but I open it and find the next chapter.

No, umm…

I didn't fall for Jesse. He was just a friend.

I s'pose the first one's not all that surprising. I've known Xander practically my whole life. I love him. But I'd love him even if I didn't have a crush. He's just—

He's _my_ Xander. I can't imagine ever being without him.

Ryan taps my back. I turn around and take the papers he offers me, adding mine to the pile and passing it forward.

And Buffy?

There are times when she looks at me and I feel like my whole world might just get better. How can I help falling in love with that?

And I have a date with her.

_Me_.

But what does that really mean? Neither of them knows. How could I possibly talk about something like that?

I can't.

I might tell Xander. Maybe, if things were different. He's the only one I could tell, but he's smitten too.

What would I say?

'I agree'? She's one of the most beautiful, strong, brave, confident, warm, wonderful women I've ever met. She's got this amazing heart. And there's nothing she's afraid of. She just—

She's Buffy. And she wants to go out with me. I have a date with _Buffy_.

The lump in my belly grows wings.

A _date_.

* * *

I catch sight of Xander. It doesn't matter that he's on the other side of the quad and I'm—

No, this isn't weird. Not a bit. Chasing someone down when you're already late for class is perfectly normal, right?

I'm slipping. He's already in the building when I catch up. Just on the other side of the door. I don't quite run him or anyone else over.

"Hey, Buff," he says.

He didn't expect to see me. That part's not all that surprising. I shouldn't be here. But he's happy too. He acts like he's genuinely pleased to see me. That's a little strange, considering the general level of avoidiness.

I reply, "Hey," because that's what I'm supposed to do. I'm s'posed to be friendly, not wiggy and weird. That's what they're doing. I've been everywhere I'm supposed to be—where we usually are together—but I've been there alone. I'm being friendly, not weird. Not even a little. Though, there is one minor flaw in my brilliant plan: I'm now on the other side of campus from where I need to be. I have to make this quick, so I ask my question, "Is it me, or has Willow been acting weird?" My slightly altered question. It's not him. He's smiling. So, it must be Willow, right?

This is all Mom's fault. If she wasn't so determined for me to learn a foreign language, I wouldn't have this problem. I'd be over here with everyone else, not over there in the language lab with all of the overachievers. I'm so not—

He says, "You're gonna have to be more specific," through one of those goofy, snarky, lopsided Xander-grins.

Last year it was German because it was easy to tell her I hated that. So this year it's Spanish. Her idea. And what with the actual usefulness and the lack of strange guttural sounds, 'I hate it' won't be such an easy sell. Next year, if she hasn't given up, I'll try French, 'cause while disappointing her is an issue, I'm as determined as she is. Though my determination is a little bit different. I'm determined not to get saddled with a second year language class. They look like too much work.

Xander said something. I was having a conversation with a friend like a normal person.

_Weird_ he makes me doubt. Just that quick. "I don't know," I admit. Maybe it's just me. I'm probably overreacting. Still, I put it out there. "I've barely seen you guys today." Voicing my concerns is a good thing, right? "And when I have seen her she's been—"

"Weird?"

"Yeah."

Any hope I have that there's a simple explanation gets quashed when he says, "You do understand that you're talking about Willow, right?"

It's pointless to explain. He's as clueless as I am. I should get my tardy self to class. It's just…I have this thing for lost causes…and beating on things that are dead. "Yeah, but this is—"

I stop short when Willow emerges from a cross corridor at the other end of the hall. Maybe I'm wrong. Looks like she's headed this way. But as I raise my hand to wave, she turns around and 'poof' she's gone. "There. Did you see that?" I ask.

"See what?"

No. How would he? His back was turned.

"Nothing," I reply. She was there and gone so fast, I wonder if I saw her myself. There are a lot of people in the hallway. Maybe I just saw someone who looked like her?

No, that was her. No one else would wear that many different shades of pink. Nobody could, not and look that adorable. I think that's why they don't.

Maybe she missed us?

No, she knows our schedules. She knows pretty much exactly where we'll be on any given day. It almost feels like she forgot. Then she thought better of coming this way because she didn't want to run into us.

Err, _me_.

Maybe she forgot something? Could be she had to go back and get it.

Maybe, but probably not. I'm not even s'posed to be here. She saw me and bolted. Ergo, it's me she doesn't want to see.

"This is different," I say. It really is. "It's like she's avoiding me." Did I do something wrong?

Xander 'umms' and 'ers.' He's clueless.

And I'm insecure.

I'm actually being _insecure_—which is like the last thing—

I'm insecure and I'm late. Timing never was my thing. "Never mind," I say. "I need to get to class." I turn to head back across the quad.

And of course, the bell rings before I'm even halfway there.

I'm late and I don't care. I hate feeling like this. I can't imagine what I might've done wrong. Obviously something. Who knows?

Guess I'll find out tomorrow.

I don't even know what time we're s'posed to meet. I'll try to call. If she avoids me, I'll just show up.

* * *

I can't do this. I give up, turn away from the mess I've made, sit down at my desk and take my head in my hands.

She wants some tall, dark, mystery man. What use is she going to have for an awkward, introverted little girl with a complexion like Casper?

A tear splashes my desk when I blink.

I'm a mess.

No wonder Xander doesn't see me.

And she—

She sees me, but she'll never see me that way. It's like, if by chance, someone does notice me, they'll never in a million years find me attractive. I'll always be exactly the opposite of everything they want. Xander wants someone vibrant, beautiful and self-assured. I'm none of those things.

I'm a parody.

Anyone else who notices me laughs at me. All I'm really good for is comic relief. I get nervous and I say the stupidest things. I can trip over my own feet with the best of them. Need a giggle…or someone to do your homework? I'm your gal.

Mostly I'm just invisible.

I take a couple tissues from the box on my desk. The first one goes to dry my stupid eyes and my stupid cheeks. As I blow my stupid nose with the second one, someone taps at the glass in my door with their nail. My nose is so loud I almost don't hear it.

I'm pathetic.

It's Buffy. I don't have to look to know. We have a 'date.'

She taps again.

I'm not ready. I may never be ready.

She calls out, "Willow, please. I just want to talk," breaking my concentration and snuffing my consideration of the most tactful way to tell her to buzz off.

The hurt in her voice makes me feel selfish, cruel and insensitive. I go to the door. I didn't mean to hurt her. Somewhere between my checking to make sure it's her—which is stupid—and my opening the door, she finds a smile for me.

I'm a brat. She's relieved that I'm going to let her in. That's how she looks. And I'm pouting and throwing a fit.

Her smile lasts for a second or two. Prettiest smile in the world and I put it out. Now that's true talent. I'm a _talented_, selfish, insensitive, mean, rotten brat.

I hang my head. Hopefully she won't notice that I've been crying. I'm so selfish that I don't want to talk about it.

She asks, "Are you okay?" Then she sees the mess I've made and changes her tune. "What's wrong?" It looks like a rainbow threw up on my bed. Pretty much all the clothes I own are piled there. I tried them all on. Stupid things. The more I tried, the sillier I felt.

I lie through my teeth, "I'm fine," and step aside, gesturing for her to come in. It's a pretty flimsy lie. I don't sound fine. I sound tired.

I am tired.

And I'm a terrible liar. I guilt too much to lie well. Even the teensy little white ones make my belly feel rumbly.

"Are you sure?" she asks.

I won't lie again.

When I don't answer, she looks from the bed to me in my robe and back again several times.

I skip the rest of the inspection by returning to my desk to mope. That's all I'm good for.

That, and homework…and acting stupid and making people laugh—not with me, but at me. I'm a mean, selfish, absurd parody of a person.

She takes off her jacket. I hear the debate even though she doesn't say a word. She's trying to figure out what to do about me. I'm a problem now—another problem she feels compelled to fix.

And of course me, being the stupid schmuck I am, I feel awful about it. Buffy has enough problems without adding my drama to the mix. But what can I do? I'm stuck. Trying to convince her I'm fine would be fun, now wouldn't it? I'd have to lie my patootie off.

I can't.

I assume the 'sleeping in class' position, using my forearms to cushion my head from the desk. I have a nice view of my lap this way. My robe's soft against my skin and it cuts off most of the light. The pressure and the darkness make my head less throbby.

She moves. My closet door opens. It's either that or the door into the main part of the house. She isn't leaving, though she should. The outside door sounds different. It's heavier and the seal makes this sucking sound. I can't imagine her wanting to have a sit down talk with my mother, so…

It's my closet. The scraping hangers give her away. She emerges, after several minutes of rifling through the dregs, with something I forgot I had. I have to look when I hear her brush past the door. I'm just too curious not to. Which pretty much cinches it: I'm officially bad at everything, even sulking.

I haven't seen that skirt in almost a year. My mother bought it for me last time we went to Arizona. It's one of those. One of the few things I own that she got for me because she wanted me to look like a grownup. Showing me off to her sister is different from school. Heaven forbid that anyone there takes me seriously. We wouldn't want that. But when it comes to family, my mom's all over touting how successful she is, what a perfect daughter she has, a perfect marriage, a perfect life…

Buffy holds the skirt out at arm's length to look at it. I can tell by her expression that she likes it. The silky chiffon fabric has a wild rose print that's still pretty colorful like the rest of my clothes, but it's the 'pretty' kind of colorful, not the 'excessively vibrant' kind.

She brings the skirt to me. "How 'bout this?"

Her tone's so unassuming I can't refuse. I reach out and accept the skirt without meeting her eyes. She goes to my bed to look through my heap as I stand up to dress.

Or half dress. She gave me a skirt. That's half a dress, right?

I wonder what she'll find for the other half.

Curiosity stinks. I want to know, but not enough to watch. Course there's the standard 'we're both girls,' so my stance to stand with my back to her makes me look tetchy and weird. I just don't think I could bear feeling that vulnerable now.

The last thing I need is to hear about how my lips are too thin, or my nose is too big, or my legs are too skinny, or my freckles are too many. Connect the Dots can turn into a game of 'any picture you want' on me. Or there's my widow's peak. That's an old favorite. Count Rosenberg at your service. People are so mean.

Not that I think Buffy would pick on me for any of those reasons, or anything else for that matter. It's just—

I don't want her to look at me 'cause she might give me a look and I—

I'll pass. I put on my skirt and tie my robe closed.

When I sit down, Buffy's opening my dresser drawers one after another looking for something else. I don't have the energy to care. I thought I did.

It takes her a moment, but I guess she finds what she wants 'cause she says, "Here, try these."

I turn around to find her holding out my green cashmere sweater and a white cotton camisole. I accept them. This sweater's more cyan than green. It has a blueish cast like that. She's good at this. The color almost matches some of the leafy greens in the print on my skirt. Similar hue, just lighter. I never would've noticed…which is sad 'cause the sweater even has three little roses embroidered on it near the bottom.

She disappears into my closet again. My first guess is for shoes, but she comes out with hangers. Lots of them.

I'm pretty sure that stealing chocolate from a child would involve less actual guilt than Buffy cleaning up after me. I've never been that evil, so I can only speculate, but it seems like a pretty fair guess. "Buffy, you don't have to do that."

Saying anything is pointless. She just replies with the obvious, "I know. I want to." She picks up a blouse and shakes it out. "Get dressed. It's fine."

Alrighty then. Not much I can do, except turn my shameful, shrunken self around and do as she asks. Doubtless she never meant for me to button my sweater up to my throat. I want to put my robe back on when I'm done, for that additional big frumpy layer of protection, but I know that'd be pushing it.

She's coming out of my closet when I face the room. A third of the mess is cleared away and she has more hangers. She smiles at me before she puts them down. It's that smile again. That sweet little half-smile that makes me feel all gooey. I think it means she thinks I'm cute. I'm not sure…mostly because I can't imagine someone like her finding me cute.

I try to join her in cleaning up my mess, but she waves me off. "Finish getting ready. I've got this."

I should do something at least.

What I do do is what she asked after I hang up my robe. That one small thing makes me feel a little less like I'm completely useless.

Just mostly.

I go to my bureau, take a seat and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My face is sticky and gross. I want to wash it, but I need to avoid another run-in with my mother even more. Sometimes I feel like she sits in wait for moments like these when I'm feeling more yucky than plucky. Because what every teenage girl needs to make things better is a little psychoanalysis from their mother. A stringent pad, makeup remover, thingamabob provides a compromise. I get to deal with the worst of the salty slimy mess in a mom-free environment. Between that and some moisturizer, I look okay. Not great.

Almost human.

Accentuating the human with colorful pigments sometimes helps, or so I hear. As I prepare to paint on a happy face, Buffy asks, "So whatcha wanna do tonight?"

"I don't know."

My reply is less than enthusiastic, so much less so that it's met with the clack of hangers and the rustle of clothing. That doesn't bother me so much, other than that's just another reason for me to feel guilty. She's trying to be friendly and I'm being a big ol' party pooper. I wonder if she'll get sick of me.

Wondering that makes me feel sick of me.

I don't need to wonder how that would go. I'm not new to being lonely.

Dwelling doesn't help either…and trying to put on makeup when you're weepy is really counterproductive, not to mention messy. I take a tissue in hopes of wiping away a black smudge from beneath my right eye. My hands are shaking, so taking it off goes as well as putting it on. I give up even trying to clean up. If I don't, I'm gonna end up looking like Jackson Pollock made up my face.

There's nothing for it, except to hang my head and let go.

Drip.

Sniffle.

Drip.

Shudder.

Drip.

She interrupts my fretting by resting her hand on my shoulder.

I raise my head and the contact ends. That's worse. I want to say so. I want to tell her that just that little bit of compassion made me feel better. It helped. Trouble is, every bit of me feels thick and wooly all the way down to my toes. It isn't easy, but I swallow. The lump in my throat doesn't budge an inch. Mumbling, "No," is more than I can manage. My voice breaks. I sound like a frog.

She misses my meaning. Somehow I catch her arm as she tries to leave.

"No, you're fine."

That wasn't much better, but at least I finish my thought. As I let go of her arm to reach for a Kleenex to dry my eyes, she touches me again. It's the same simple gesture. The only thing affectionate about it is her intent.

I find the courage to look up. Naturally, because she asked me to make it better, I made it worse. That's how this is supposed to work. I'm opposite girl, backward is forward, right is left and good somehow always turns bad around me, so instead of us having fun together like normal friends would, I get stupid and sullen.

My eyes are too puffy. I think it's a lost cause, but I have to try. An icepack wouldn't hurt a bit, but leaving my room still sounds like an awful idea, so I make do. And as I do, something kind of wonderful happens. She starts to play with my hair and we fall into this thing—a rhythm of sorts. I like it when someone else brushes my hair. It reminds me of when I was little, back before things got so complicated. With me distracted, everything else gets better and before I know it she's urging me to turn around on my stool.

I get another smile for my trouble. She wants me to stand, so I do. I look down as she unbuttons the top button of my sweater.

"Xander's a really sweet guy," she says. Her hands move lower. She unbuttons another button. "Not very smart, but sweet." She looks up at me, grins and moves to the next button. "What do you expect? He's a teenage boy."

My mouth is dry. The 'unbuttoning' is a weird, suggestive, intrusive… It doesn't help.

She doesn't seem to notice. My sweater's half open when she finishes. I follow her lead and she turns me around. "His loss," she says with a smile.

I look at myself in the mirror 'cause that's what she wants. She put my hair up. My makeup looks okay. I guess _I_ look okay.

It's apparent from her expression that she thinks so.

"Now what do you want to do?"

* * *

I feel the nervous energy rolling off her as she fumbles with the door lock.

She was fine until we got back here.

I've done everything I can. She knows it's not all bad. There are people who care.

We had a bite to eat, saw a show, had coffee…and for awhile she was okay. She laughed and she smiled. We talked. It was good.

Weird she insisted on paying for everything. I tried, but she said she invited me out so she should pay. I felt so bad. It's not like either one of us has tons of money. We're teenagers. We're not supposed to. So I guess next time I fight fire with fire by asking her out.

I just wish I knew what was wrong with her now.

She opens the door to her room. I expect her to invite me in, but instead she gives me a quick peck on the cheek. And just as quick, her door shuts and she's gone.

I guess that's it. She's such a strange girl. I turn and walk away.

Sweet, but strange.


	2. Cross Words

******Summary:** Schmaltzy cuteness just because.

**Rating:** FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

******Word Count:** 1,592.

**Commas Brought to You By: **Howard Russell & whedonist.

**Pairing: **Buffy/Willow.

******Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

* * *

**Cross Words**

* * *

Willow is a master of deception.

Anyone who knew her and knew me and heard me say that would assume I was trying to be cute.

I'm not.

We're at that point right now. The point where anyone else—a normal person—whatever that is—would be lying through their teeth. Not Willow. She's so wound up she's actually making me twitchy. Tension so thick I could slice it with a spork. It's like the next 'uh' to vent from her head might result in its explosive decompression.

She's a bomb and I'm the bomb squad. That'd be so cool if it wasn't for the whole 'feeling like a heel' part. I want to know what's wrong, so…

I need to ask her again. Not that I remember the question. Buffy asked me what was up with Will. I told her I didn't know, adding the obvious reminder. A reminder that pointed out that we were talking about the one person who is almost completely incomprehensible to both of us. I don't get Will and I've known her nearly all of my life. Her logic in no way resembles the patterns embraced by the majority of the species.

Needless to say I'm lost. I have no clue what I said to set her off. The only thing obvious about the subject I can't remember is that she doesn't want to talk about it.

See? _Masterful_.

The most masterful thing of all is she doesn't try to do it. She just does. She's a virtuoso in the art of deception, misdirection, the full array of 'sneaky' without a single thing being anything but _over _about her handedness.

I s'pose it'd be different for someone who didn't care about her. For those of us who do—

I sigh. I picked the most boring thing I could possibly fixate on. My tennis shoes haven't changed a bit in the last, uh…_minutes_. I wiggle my toes, hoping to improve the view.

Nope they're still boring. They stand out like Smurf guts against the wooden picnic bench. That is assuming, as I often have, that Smurfs would bleed day-glow orange.

Buffy thinks that something's wrong. I think that something's wrong. Willow isn't talking. That means there's something wrong.

A second sigh gets me the same thing the first one did. That is to say _nothing_. Something would be better.

Here's something: "What happened?" Nice. Vague. The anti of accusatory.

My question snaps Willow's attention up. She's so snappy the picnic table even shudders. She blurts, "Nothing," like I've just accused her of something. "We went out. We had coffee. We saw a movie."

"Yeah," I reply, trying to sound reassuring. "That's good, but why—?"

That just makes her snappier. "Because we're friends!"

It'd be nice if she let me finish. I rub my face starting at my eyes and ending with the hollows beside them. Or _ground zero_ as they're otherwise known. Several moments pass, my head doesn't explode and my face doesn't slide off in my hands. "Yes, Willow, we're _friends_," I say, more patiently than I should. "I'm your friend." I pat my chest open palmed. "And Buffy's your friend. That's why we don't understand. It's not like you had a bad date."

Her expression says otherwise, not by openly saying otherwise but by looking so aghast. I struck a nerve.

My mouth falls open. I put it to use. "It was a date?" Probably a mistake. "But Buffy doesn't date girls. She's too pretty to be gay." Definitely a mistake.

* * *

Of all the pigheaded, closed minded, _male_…!

"What makes you think that there's a corollary—" I stammer, the thread of a thought slipping away into the murky, hot, prickly, volatile fog in my head. I grab at it, force it. "—that prettiness has anything to do with gayness?" It's a wonder I manage. He totally skips over her smittenness. Something so obvious, like her being head-over-heels infatuated with Angel doesn't even enter into the picture, probably because admitting that—examining _that_ would call his _claim_ into question. Instead, he goes for the spurious, abstruse, random assumption that aesthetics have anything to do with—

He's such a boy!

Okay, that's just silly. Of course _he's_ a _boy_. He's a dejected, whipped puppy sort of a boy.

"I—"

He's a dejected, whipped puppy who stammers too. That's useful.

Did I just admit to being gay? But I'm not sure that I _am_ gay. I'm—

Xander seems unconcerned. Like it isn't a huge shock that I'm—he couldn't care less that I—

Am I?

That's a topic I could struggle with for days. It gets shunted aside in favor of: "You don't think that I'm pretty!" I voice it the instant I think it. I suppose the thousands of times I've done that and it's turned out badly were all elaborate figments of my imagination. Otherwise, I'd have to admit that I'm repeating mistakes because I'm—

Xander glares at me. "That's not fair!"

"Isn't it?" I reply, all emotion wrung from my tone. I leap to my feet—without tripping over them, small favors being what they are—hop down from the picnic bench and storm away.

Xander calls after me, "Willow!" He keeps trying. I keep going. I'm not even sure where I'm going. I pick a direction. It's a direction that leads me deeper into the park.

That doesn't matter. There's another side to this park. It's not a huge park. It's just biggish. What matters is that his voice grows distant. There's distance. I need distance.

Am I really gay?

* * *

'Kay, so…I asked, and now they're both being weird. Conclusion: I shouldn't ask. Asking is bad. Asking gets me more trouble than—

"Willow!"

I catch sight of her as she enters the Bronze. Thankfully, the sound of my voice gets overwhelmed by the bright, cheery, thumpy din they're pumping over the loudspeakers. I don't know why I'm so happy to see her. She's still gonna be weird. I wave anyway. It's not like weirdness and Willow are some sort of mutually exclusive, unmixy, oil and water kind of combo. They go together like peanut butter and jelly. Willow not being weird would be—

Willow.

She saw me. She's approaching. Ten, nine, eight… Induced cheerfulness brims over, almost smothering my, "Hi." I take a drink of my fruity, all-too-sweet, sparking water to wash the effects of my 'hi' down without gagging and utterly fail. I choke, hand to mouth, searching for a napkin.

"Hi," she replies, her own induced cheerfulness proudly on display. Not that I so much notice—what with the gagging. What I do notice is the napkin she holds out.

Mercifully, the soda doesn't come out my nose. I mop up. Well, isn't this fun?

I gesture. She sits. Once she's convinced I'm okay, her attention immediately starts to wander, distracted by anything and everything taking place in the Bronze. There isn't much. It's canned music night. The same odd dozenish Sunnydale High students pretend that they know how to dance.

See? _Fun_.

Big fun. Joy of joys. "What's wrong?" My voice, wrought with concern, trails off, snags, ends in a croak. I hadn't intended to say anything. That's probably why the croak. Or it could be the lingering effects of inhaling sucrose-saturated, fruity flavored fizzy water. I hear that's bad for you. My throat tickles in psychosomatic accord. The other shoe is about to drop. That might be kind of fun if it wasn't the metaphorical, butt-kicky kind. A pair of Italian leather slingbacks to match my new blue skirt would be nice.

It isn't request night. What I get instead is an evasive, "Nothing."

I sigh. _Fun_.

Most of another sugary concoction later, we're still seated at our carefully selected center, sideline table. Not quite in the middle of everything, but not against a wall. I hate feeling boxed in. We've been here the entire time, give or take a potty break and sticky, syrupy damage control. It's been riveting. Instead of inhaling our beverages, we opt to sip them as we people watch, paying more attention to the crowd than each other.

_Fun_. What's this town coming to? There haven't even been any stupid vampires trolling the crowd.

Willow offers the occasional glance, but when I notice the attention, it shifts. She's sitting right next to me and avoiding me all at once. 'Annoying' doesn't even begin to cover it. I wish I had something to say, but all I've got is 'what's wrong?' That worked out so well the last few times, I think I'll pass.

The real funny, I want to go. Been wanting. I'm just afraid that if I do—

I'm afraid there's something _really_ wrong. It worries me that she won't talk to me. It makes me think silly thoughts, like maybe I did something to upset her. I know I didn't. That is unless being quietly concerned is somehow offensive.

I catch her watching. She looks away. I stare until she looks at me again. Her head's propped in her hand, fingers combed though her hair. Unconsciously, she moves, caressing her neck.

I grin, just happy to have her attention. She moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue. It's cute. My grin becomes a smile.

She glances at her hand where it rests near her drink. My hand isn't far from hers. Her attention glazes over it before she glances at her lap. She meets my eyes. Hers flutter. It's like body language one-oh-one.

Is she seriously flirting? Her expression says 'yes.' The peek she 'sneaks' at my cleavage says 'hell, yes.'

Oh God. I laugh. What else can I do?


	3. Cross Purposes

**Summary: **Loves lost, hints taken.

**Rating: **FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count: **1,289.

**Commas Brought to You By:** Howard Russell & **whedonist**.

**Pairing:** Buffy/Willow.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

* * *

**Cross Purposes**

* * *

"That doesn't necessarily make him a bad person, does it?" Willow suggests, briefly resting her hand over mine in reassurance. "I mean, he's been trying to help, hasn't he?" The look in her eyes is so intense, so _earnest_, like she wants me to tell her it'll be okay—that _I'll_ be okay.

I'm not sure I can. I look down, focusing on my hands, the table, my glass, anything but her.

"Bad people aren't helpful, are they?"

That's her third question. There should be a limit to the number of things people are allowed to ask before they're forced to take a break and give the other person a chance to weigh in.

Not that I can.

I'm pretty sure becoming a vampire makes a person not a person at all, but I can't tell her that. She's trying to be nice. And I'm being a wet blanket, moping around in the near dark, with the loud music and the glaring, colorful, directional lights that could be programmed to do something less annoying than illuminate our table every few minutes. You'd think I could find a better place to sulk than the Bronze.

I can't exactly tell her that bad people can be helpful either. Or they can seem to be. Bad people are pretty big on scheming and conniving. But she's too sweet to understand that the kind of helpful they are usually furthers their own ends, while undermining any good the good guys are trying to do. Or maybe she does get that much—what with movies and TV.

I just hope she stays this sweet. There's a chance that me and my craptastic luck will wring the sweetness out of her.

So what can I tell her?

"I'm okay, Will," I say and immediately wonder whether I sounded sincere.

I guess. I tried. I s'pose I even kinda, sorta meant it, but only because I don't believe that was what Angel's been trying to do. I think he actually meant well, even if he did mistake me for dinner.

And not in the fun, figurative, blush-worthy way.

Though there were smoochies. Nice smoochies. Then he was all 'grrr' and I was all 'eek' and badness ensued.

"Can we change the subject?" I ask through a sigh, regretting it seconds later.

Too late.

She positively beams at me. "Sure. Whatcha want to talk about?" she replies, touching my hand again. This time she doesn't pull away. Without thinking I turn my hand over.

She's been awfully touchy-feely lately. Well, not lately. Lately I haven't been around much. We've been—

I shouldn't have stopped her. She used to talk about boys all the time. And that was almost like girl talk. Our 'girl talk' time has been suspiciously absent since—

"I don't know," I say, half to myself and half to her.

Since she decided that I—

That she—

I don't know, but I'm smiling too. No clue why. I sure don't feel like smiling. There's just something about her that's—

She's—

She's caressing my fingers. I'm so preoccupied it barely registers. Yet I'm caressing hers and she's caressing mine. She's been caressing mine. I pull away.

_That's it._

The way she's looking at me is just—

That's _exactly_ it. She adores me. It's right there, written all over her face.

I mean, I've seen it. I just never really _saw_ it. It never occurred to me that she could be—with the—and the—

I get it. The annoying thing is that the 'it' that I get isn't something I can even explain. It's a 'behavior' thing. It's how I've been responding to her and how she's responded to me.

It was all there in that smile moments ago. That smile I've seen dozens of times. Maybe dozens and dozens of times.

Of course her smile's gone. Now she's looking at me like she's debating whether to ask me what's wrong.

I just never put it together. I wasn't looking for it. It didn't even occur to me that she—

She's been flirting with me since the day we met. She probably didn't even know she was doing it, or what the 'it' she was doing even meant. And I was right there, happily oblivious, doing what I do.

_Flirting_ back. I didn't even notice. I held her hand. I smiled too.

_God_. I even liked it. I thought it was cute.

_Harmless._

I'm on my feet.

She looks alarmed.

I back away, announcing, "I've gotta go," starting to turn. I snatch my jacket off the back of my chair. By the time I've finish saying, "I just remembered—" I'm dashing for the rear exit.

I weave past obstacle after obstacle, some of them the 'people' sort of obstacles, some of them not. The Harmony-shaped obstacle sneers, "Hey! Watch it!" I hear her mumble, "Freak," or maybe she snaps it like she did the rest. When she finally gets to the actual insult, I'm too far away to know for sure.

Like I really care. Harmony is the last thing I worry about, _ever_.

Besides, my hands are full. I've got Willow to think about and her latest revelation. I'm too busy dodging trash, running through the grungy, grubby alley, past the dilapidated warehouses that surround the Bronze.

I feel awful. I led her on. I didn't even know I was doing _it_.

I stop and slink into an alcove, part of a warehouse that's encrusted in at least a decade's worth of grime and graffiti. I don't want to get too far from the Bronze. Willow might come looking for me, and while I don't necessarily want her to find me, I don't want her to get hurt either. These alleys are a bad place to be alone.

I don't know what to do about her.

I thought that maybe if I backed off—if I did my thing—my 'hanging out in the shadows, just out of reach, lingering on the edge of life, not quite tangible, intensely _healthy_, highly _social_' thing—and she did hers, that things might get better. Things seemed to be going—well, not _well_, but I thought things seemed normal enough to be at that stalemate stage where everything's frozen in a tolerable state of brokenness and everyone's afraid to poke anymore for fear of breaking things worse. Nothing really gets better because all of the solutions seem impossible. Or at least so hard it might as well be impossible.

How do you make someone uninfatuated with you without hurting them?

Avoidance?

Because that's worked great so far.

The wind picks up, sending a discarded fast food bag pinwheeling past me. I put on my jacket and lift my hood. It sucks out here tonight. I should just go home.

I'll give it a few more minutes. I want to be sure she's okay.

Like that'll happen. I ran out on her. She isn't going to be okay. Maybe she bought my excuse. I sounded stressed, but I always sound stressed when I've forgotten something. I always run off too. Hopefully she'll just think it was me being me—the me that can't handle life, not the me that can't handle her.

What am I going to do?

It isn't like I can avoid her completely. We have some of the same classes. And there's the Scooby thing. She wants to help. After all the fuss I made—my insistence that I need friends, friends are healthy, I need a life away from slaying—shunning that life would just be—

So, I'm stuck with her.

Not that that's bad. I love her. I miss her. She's my best friend. I just wish she felt the same way about me.


	4. Where Dreams Cross

**Summary: **Research runs afoul.

**Rating: **FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count: **1,075.

**Commas Brought to You By: **Howard Russell.

**Pairing:** Buffy/Willow.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

* * *

**Where Dreams Cross**

* * *

Warm wetness on my lower lip makes me all gooey inside. It's like I licked it. No big, right?

It wouldn't be if it had been me. Only it wasn't. It was her. Holy mother mairzy doats and dozy doats…I still feel her; lingering traces; phantom caresses; warm, wonderful tingles radiating beneath my skin.

Touching her lips has been a goal. One of those unspoken, barely admitable goals that friendship, no matter how strong, wasn't going to allow. There are lines. Parts that are bad. Funny that the better part of those parts aren't the parts that modesty covers.

Well, maybe not 'better.' Prettier?

'No,' I amend, remembering her cleavage, and the unhealthy longing I've felt time and again to see and touch and—umm…all of those pretty, always-clothed parts associated with cleavage. Funny how such longings always come with a side order of petrifying fear.

Other parts were safer. The perfect arch of Cupid's bow, a thin, slender, delicate sculpture, folding back on itself, creasing, dimpling, becoming plump and pouty.

Her lips.

All of her is like that—beautiful sculpture, like Venus de Milo only slenderer, with better cheekbones and better hair and—umm…_arms_. Or all of her I've seen has been like that—what with all of those pesky clothes that somehow, sometimes, probably make her prettier.

I wouldn't know for sure.

Clothing's like that. It's pretty, but mostly all about covering a socially reasonable percentage of those parts. So much so that we wear two, sometimes three layers of clothing over most of our parts—'double bagging' the most sensitive parts to protect them and keep the best goodies from falling out. Not that I have that problem. She does.

But then there are her lips. Her beautiful, sensuous, smooth, silky, slippery, sumptuous, perfectly kissable lips. No clothing's required for those babies. They wouldn't be so good for talking with clothing, or whistling, or chewing. But that's bad. Nibbling on them makes them all rough and dry and less kissable.

I slip away into a wonderfully woozy, fantasy/memory thingy. Kissing Buffy. There are other kinds of nibbling that are delightful. And there's smushing, and stroking, and smacking, not the mean, slappy, unhappy way, but because when you're kissing, lips make that funny popping sound no matter how hard you try not to.

Everything from my bellybutton up does a fair impression of that light, airy, lighter-than-air thing that happens when you crest a hill on a rollercoaster. With effort, I sober. I could've reached out and touched her lips at any time. Any time I wanted to face a funny look, or worse, get cold cocked into next week.

Needless to say, I didn't. I waited and she…

She tasted different. That was a surprise. We had mochas. I sort of thought she'd taste like chocolate and coffee. She did, but there was more. Something subtle. Sweet and spicy. Not 'chili' spicy, but 'allspice' spicy. Did she have cinnamon and nutmeg in her coffee?

I don't think so. So what was that?

The best answer I can find is 'her.' Underneath it all, that's just how she tastes. I reach up to touch my own lips, hoping to renew the fading sensation. It's gone.

_She's_ gone. I know she's gone. I don't have to open my eyes to know. I don't want to open my eyes because I don't want to know that she's gone.

I've been sitting here like an idiot—because what else would I do—with my mouth lolling, half open for—

I don't know how long.

A long time. Too long I've sat here, feeling heavy, dazed and distant…sinking, like this was something from a fairy tale. Her kiss bathed me in warmth and made everything drift away, or made _me_ drift away from everything else. I float, bobbing up and down with the waves, but I'm not wet. I'm comfy and dry, and my head's hopelessly fuzzy, a lint trap between my ears.

Nothing matters. I drink in the comfort for what feels like forever or half of next week.

Something crashes. A sound so loud the table rumbles. I snap upright. The table I was slumped over on? My eyes open and I see Giles and books, lots of books.

That was _a book_.

The crash was _a book_. It makes sense. There isn't much in a library that's heavy enough to go boom like that that isn't a book, or something book related. As loud as that was, I expected to see a toppled bookcase.

Giles stares at me bemused. "My apologies," he says, the book he must've fumbled still rests askew half on the table and half in his right hand.

Heat rises in my cheeks before I really understand why. Butterflies muscle their way in to take control of my tummy. Who knew butterflies could be such brutes? I look down. A small puddle of drool wets the table, looking impossibly large. I tear my eyes from that and look around. We're alone. It's just us. Was Buffy even here?

Of course she was. I kissed her.

But then where was Giles?

My heart falls. He was here. I remember. I was studying the Mythros Gable. Kids are getting hurt again and we need to know why. Buffy wasn't here. She breezed through on her way to patrol. Xander went home early. I was here and Giles was here and—

I shoot to my feet. And I had an alarmingly realistic, totally uncensored, semi-lucid dream about kissing my best friend in front of Giles. As I wonder how that must've looked, my face finishes its transformation into a brazier, red hot coals replacing my cheeks, flames licking my forehead.

He doesn't know. How could he?

Thoughts like those are small comforts when faced with the enormity of having such a deeply erotic fantasy anywhere. But here? Right under Giles' nose? There are certain situations that can suck all of the comfort from the world. I know that now. I could've lived without knowing that.

He has to know something. He's just too polite to—

Carelessly, I shovel my books into my arms, identifying them by their glossy covers, snapping said covers closed, barely watching what I'm doing.

"Willow?" Giles says, concerned, as my autopilot engages. I have to get out of here. "Where are you—?"

I run from the library as fast as my legs will carry me.


	5. Cross Section

**Summary: **A view from the gallery.

**Rating: **FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count: **3,235.

**Commas Brought to You By:** Howard Russell.

**Pairing: **Buffy/Willow.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

* * *

**Cross Section  
**

* * *

The library doors swoosh open. Before they've banged against their stops, I glance over my shoulder from where I stand at the foremost stack, shelving a few of the day's returns.

As I suspected, my visitor is Buffy. She was due to put in an appearance. From her no-nonsense demeanor, it looks as if she intends to breeze through, strafe the study table in order to acquire some object—likely the cast off biology textbook that's been there since this morning—and then leave, speaking a few superfluous platitudes en route such as the clipped, insufficiently affable, "Hi, Giles," she utters now. Over the course of the past few weeks, except in times of crisis, this parody of interaction is what has been passing for discourse.

I, for one, am foundered.

I wait to speak until she reaches the apex of her projected course, as close as she will come to my location and still be facing me. "Do you have a moment? There's an important matter I wish to discuss with you."

"No. Sorry," she says without a hitch in action or motion. "I've gotta run. I'm going to be late for class."

I allow a brief pause for her to suggest another time at which we might meet. That would be the polite thing to do. My optimism costs me several precious seconds, during which she rounds the table, snags the textbook, and orients her trajectory toward the exit. My mistake. I had forgotten that politeness isn't one of the elements of this revolutionary new method of conference.

She's slipping away. _Again. _They've all been doing that of late and I wish to know why.

The carelessness with which I shelve the remaining text costs me an internal cringe. I can set it right later. Presently I need very much to be jogging. I need to be jogging like I need another hole in my head, but she's left me with no alternatives. I have to seize this opportunity, else I will find myself in precisely the same situation tomorrow. The same situation I've been in for weeks. This intolerable state that is the norm now with all three of the young people in my charge.

Well, save for Xander. He doesn't need to avoid me. All he has to do is remain obtuse—a task for which he has limitless talent—and I snub him reflexively.

I close in and match Buffy's gait as she leaves the library. "Well then, you won't mind if I walk with you," I say, avoiding the seemingly obligatory slanting glance. I'd prefer not to run headlong into the door.

She doesn't protest, which isn't terribly surprising. My statement wasn't a question at all. I didn't phrase it as such. I care little for what she thinks. She will be stuck with this 'old man' until she reaches class. She can, as the young people are so fond of saying these days, 'get over it.'

The door swings in my wake. Oh dear. The matter with Xander sounds very much like psychological reactance. I hope to heavens I'm wrong. The thought of being outmaneuvered by such a juvenile ploy is troubling to say the least.

I put the horror of that insight out of my mind and focus on my present problem. By her silence Buffy seems to indeed be resigned to my intrusion.

This is nobody's business but hers. I lean in to speak, "I'm completely perplexed by your actions. Believe me, had I been able to sort this out on my own, I would not be—"

We nearly collide with a pair of students coming the other way when she abruptly rounds the corner into the first right hand passage. My dodging and subsequent, polite, "I beg your pardon," divides us. It's inconvenient, but I can't be rude.

It seems very convenient for her. I have to work to catch up. The effort leaves me seething. At any moment she is going to duck into a classroom, completely eluding me.

The damnedest part of this entire irritating fiasco is that she really hasn't been doing anything wrong. Every single challenge the Hellmouth has presented her with, she's faced with admirable resourcefulness and valor. What she isn't facing is some rift in the group dynamic that I cannot grasp. There's a detail that I'm missing. The most frustrating thing about it is that it was she who insisted that a group dynamic exist in the first place. She created the situation, now she's casting it asunder like a broken toy.

Her continued silence, the intransigent haste of her pace and her unwavering focus on minutia—anything other than me—tells me that I am about to waste my breath.

That's all very well. It's my breath to waste. She will listen, or she won't. At the very least, she will be inconvenienced.

"Look," I say with sufficient force to suggest that I hope she will. "It worries me that you've become so closed off." It's no use. She remains fixated on something at the end of the hall. "Perhaps if I understood the situation, I might be of some help." My exasperation comes across as a palm out, twitch of my hands, a mockery of a shrug. "At the very least I wouldn't feel so—"

She stops. I nearly run into her as she turns, fixing me with a steely gaze. "This is none of your business, Giles," she says, her tone threatening.

I stand stalk straight and stupefied for a moment. Long enough for her to turn away.

Her attention returns to me when I agree, "Very well." I would prefer we handle this in a civilized manner. However, if she wishes to be uncivilized, I am quite capable of that as well. "The Slayer is meant to be a solitary warrior. Involving others was undoubtedly a mistake. It's good that you've realized that. I'm sure it'll be for the best if these social ties are dissolved with all due expediency." The eruption happens as I speak. I see the signs in her expression and ignore them.

She doesn't strike me. I choose to view that part as good. She does however shout, "You don't know anything about this."

I maintain my composure. "And whose fault is that?" Perhaps it's age, but whatever the case, I'm able to be acerbic without causing a scene.

Unfortunately, I don't have to. The instructor in the nearest class, Mrs. Gant, comes to her door. She glowers at us reproachfully as she shuts us out. Wonderful.

While my attention is taken by imagining the bushel of fun I will have answering her complaint to the administration, Buffy replies, "You can't help me with this."

I shift my attention back to her. If we're going to have it out, we may as well muck things up thoroughly. Though after that little drama, all that remains to ask is the obvious, "How would you know? You haven't allowed me an opportunity to even try."

"I just know," she replies.

That's it. It's that simple to her mind. I couldn't possibly have anything to offer.

I wish she felt differently.

The impatient way she regards me isn't exactly conducive, but I've stood my ground in order to speak my piece. She hasn't stalked away, so…

"You'll pardon me. I appreciate that my statements were inflammatory. However you must understand that this truly does concern me. With everything that is going on, the last thing we should be doing is bickering amongst ourselves."

"I agree," she acquiesces. That would've been adequate, but she just has to add a barb, "So why are we?"

I actually roll my eyes. I should be ashamed. Perhaps puerile behavior is catching? "Because I'm concerned about you," I explain unnecessarily, letting all of the exasperation I've been feeling seep out through my voice. "You touted these relationships you were fostering as _invaluable_. A few months later you appear to have abandoned them. You can see how that might lead me to wonder what has happened. If indeed they are so precious, why aren't you doing everything in your power to resolve the issue?"

Miracle of miracles, I finally get through, which results in an inordinate amount of her examining my shoes. "I will," she mumbles dolefully. "Just give me time."

"Please do," I reply as she turns away. I touch her upper arm to delay her. "I'm not convinced that your assessment was incorrect."

* * *

The front door opens. I finish rinsing the plate I have in my hands. My sense of timing is so refined I glance over my shoulder just as Buffy enters the kitchen. I suppose that means this place is finally beginning to feel like home. That's good.

Very good.

"How was your day?" I ask, scooping up a bowl to wash.

"Fine, Mom," she replies in a tone so chipper it clashes with the hints of melancholy I just witnessed.

She's putting up a front again. I have to ask, "Are you sure you're okay?" Badgering her is pointless. I know it is. We've been having similar conversations for weeks, but I have to try. I let the bowl slip back into the dishwater and sweep up the dishtowel from the countertop to my left as I turn to study her reply.

"Yeah, I'm great." She glances at me, her expression changing from a 'not you too,' put-upon glower to a mildly dejected smile, warming into something that looks actual and honest. A picture of stoicism is the final impression. That's what I see, which isn't what she wants me to see at all.

The whole transformation happens in less time than it takes for me to dry my hands. I could choose to ignore it. This is the sort of thing that Buffy has described in the past as 'spooky Mom mojo.' One corner of my mouth pinches in a fleeting, crooked grin. She thinks that my insights are in some way extrasensory, when in fact, they're very much_ sensory_. I'm just observant. That happens when you're concerned.

In the end, she isn't half the actress she believes she is. Not that it would matter much if she was. The details she thinks I'll miss are persistent. Willow hasn't been to visit in weeks. There's been some sort of misunderstanding between them and it's weighing heavily on Buffy's heart.

It'd probably be kinder to allow her to believe that she's put one over on me. I don't. I can't. "Honey, you know if there's something troubling you, you can always talk to me." She has to understand how much I care.

She replies, "I know," through her sweetest, plastic smile and turns away.

I let her go. I've done all I can for today.

* * *

Someone's coming. They just entered through the side street gate—a thing so old and rickety that the long-drawn-out screech of its opening sends a cringe surging upward from the soles of my feet. My jaw clamps tight against the shivers that skitter through my bones…and due to that major 'nails on a chalkboard' suckage, I vow to bring an oilcan with me next time I come here.

The chills that prickle tension into the nape of my neck pass. Time to consider my options. That gate's far enough away. I have a little slack to make up my mind. One thing's for sure: I shouldn't stay here. I'm not the sort of person who can afford to be perceived as a girly-man so pathetically mawkish and mockable that he'd stop by his late friend's grave after school to mope. Sorry, Jesse, I'd stand up for you, buddy, if you were capable of standing up, but given the givens, I should do the manly thing and sneak away.

'Cept when we hopeful manly-men get sneaky, we call it 'stealthy.' Same thing, but the difference is vast, like the one between 'awesome' and 'marvelous.' Say the first, you're one of the dudes. Slip up and use the substitution, better hope you like tweed 'cause you're a pair of blotchy spectacles and a hanky away from permanent Giles-dom.

Free thinking will not be tolerated.

I could probably cut and run and not bump into them, whoever they are—I don't even think it'd be that hard—but I'm not ready to leave. The only place I have to go is home. Even a dark, dirty crypt is better than that, as long daylight holds out. After dark, things get debatable. Depends on how hammered Dad is. The crypt might be less traumatic.

Really, I can't be sure that my mystery guest, or guests, will pass this way. Even so, the crypt isn't a bad idea. I head for one nearby. It's a good size, big enough for a coffin, not big enough for a convention. Which is also a good, given that this is Sunnydale and vacant crypts here are like Motel Sixes to the undead.

I touch the rough stone surface of the crypt. This should be a workable place to hole up until my company gets bored, provided I can get in. Causing the same sort of ruckus would kind of defeat the purpose, so I gently test the latch and hinges. Whoever's been taking care of this gate should seriously check out that other thing. The only noise this one makes is a slight clack when I release the latch. I slip through the doorway and shut myself inside.

There are three small windows overhead, one at the top of each doorless wall. They aren't much, more like horizontal arrow slits than windows, but they let in some light, which is a comfort. A single sarcophagus occupies the space so fully that there's barely room to walk around it. I hop up to get comfy, or whatever passes for comfy considering where I am.

As I sit, twiddling my toes, it occurs to me that if I stand on top of the sarcophagus, I might be able to look through the window. I do and I can, but not without ducking. And if I stand on the stupid floor, I'll be too short. It's a no-win situation that'll quickly lead to a pain in my neck. Best of all is the opportunity to mop the cobwebs off the ceiling with my hair. I'm not sure I'm curious enough to put up with this long enough to see who it is, if they even walk past here. And that's a pretty big 'if.'

The universe is nothing if not spiteful. It just has to throw me the most obvious curve, prove me wrong and make me feel like an idiot, all in the same instant that Willow walks up. She places something on Jesse's headstone and says, "Hi."

She moves her hand, allowing me to see that the 'something' is a pretty polished pebble. So she's the one who's been leaving those. I wondered.

I should leave. Instead, I sit down and try not to listen. Not that it works. Willow isn't that far away. Her voice comes through so loud clear when she tells Jesse that she misses him. I can even tell that she's nervous.

The whole thing's a little weird. I didn't think they were that close. But I guess it doesn't matter. He was my friend, which meant she saw him every day. For Willow, that's close enough for friendship.

"I feel weird about this," she says, echoing my point. "I hope you don't mind. I didn't have anywhere else to go."

You could talk to me.

"I know you probably think I can talk to Xander."

Well,_ yeah…_

"But I can't."

Why not?

"It'd just be weird," she says, trailing off into a bitter laugh. "Weirder that this, if you can believe that."

This is messed up. I actually feel myself growing upset. Why would it be weird for her to talk to me? Weirder than her talking to herself in a graveyard? That's like crazy homeless person behavior. She's my oldest friend. I thought that meant something. I want to go out and ask. See what she has to say for—

"It's true," she says. "I've really made a mess." And again with the echo. "I didn't mean to." But it's more than just the uncanniness or the weirdness. Her voice is strained, like she might be on the verge of tears. "He feels the same way I do. It's weird." A hissy, scornful snicker carves a pause in her ramble. "I know I've already said that, but it is. It's just weird."

Impressive that I hear what amounts to a rush of air. Of course, I'm less worried about that than what way she thinks I feel.

"I don't know how I feel," she says, anxiety lending strength to her voice. "Or why I feel the way I do. I just know that when I'm with Buffy, she makes me feel better about me. I feel special when I'm with her."

What?

"I feel like my heart's too big. The same way I feel about Xander sometimes. He looks at me sometimes and I feel like I'm about to burst." I strain to hear her mumble, "Not that he notices," which is really sad. Minutes ago I didn't want to listen because I thought it would be wrong. Now I'm straining to hear things I'm not sure I want to hear.

"That was bad enough," she admits, her voice crackles, threatening tears. "Now I think I love them both."

No, not 'threatening.' I can just hear her fretting. I feel sorry for her. Really, I do.

It's quiet for long enough that I wonder if that's it. Is she going to leave? She hasn't yet. I should feel something about this besides sorry for her. It should bother me.

"And I can't! I just can't!" She blows up, bawling as she rants, "I'm afraid I'll lose them—" hiccupping "—that they won't feel the same way—" sobbing "—that'll drive them away—" sputtering "—and I need them. I really, really need them. I don't know what to do."

Oh. My. God. That's what she meant? That's why she got so upset? I was joking about the 'date' thing. Apparently she wasn't. She thinks she's in love with Buffy.

And she thinks she's in love with _me_. That's bad enough. Strange enough. I've never even thought about Willow that way. I'm not even sure why. Maybe she's too much like my sister?

I don't know.

But Buffy? She thinks about Buffy that way? In what world would that work?

Will thinks that'll work? She has to see that Buffy's into guys. Will's just going to get herself hurt. Buffy would never in a million years—

I'm wiggling my foot. It's making a tapping noise. I stop. Nerves. If Will wasn't crying her eyes out, she probably would've heard me. Fortunately…or would that be 'unfortunately'?

I feel bad for her. I have a better chance with Buffy than she does. And how will that work?

Will Willow be mad if Buffy likes me? Will she resent seeing two people who she thought she loved together? I mean, I might not be tall, dark and fangsome, but I'm a whole lot closer to Buffy's type than Willow is. Once Buffy gets her head around the idea that fangsome is bad…

What will that do to Willow?


	6. Paths Crossed

**Summary:** Talking's s'posed to be a good thing, right?

**Rating:** FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count:** 3,068.

**Commas Brought to You By:** Howard Russell.

**Pairing:** Buffy/Willow.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

* * *

**Paths ****Crossed**  


* * *

This is pathetic. It isn't even dark and I'm sitting at the foot of my bed staring at my window. Not out it because, as views go, this one's pretty lacking. There's just a tree and the neighbor's house. It's the 'out' I'm into. A way to get away.

Not to mention a spectacular way to make my life tons more fun. The best. Mom would kill me if she caught me. And the 'catching'—

Short of some unthinkably disastrous weirdness, Mom would have to be majorly unmom-like to miss me going 'poof' at just after seven on a school night. But what's a little weirdness in a place where teachers are really great big bugs; zoo animals are really demons (in the classic Exorcist sense); actual demons are into cyber-dating; and the cutest, most dateable guy I know is more than a little literally bloodthirsty and probably old enough to be my great-great-_great_-**_great_**-grandfather?

He's not even a minority. Lots of the residents here think I'd be better bottled.

_Yeah, _and when morbidity starts to look like realism, that 'poof' might just be headed for a 'boom.'

I'll ask. She'll probably say 'no.' Then I'll get sneaky. Only bad things lay the way of choosing desperate measures first. I should at least make an effort, even if the last thing I feel like doing is letting Mom stir my crazy.

The obvious flaw in my plan doesn't occur to me till I'm halfway out my door. Mom would never buy that I'm going out dressed in chinos and a dumpy u-neck tee. I turn around. She probably wouldn't let me go to the Bronze anyway. Not on a Wednesday night.

So…

Excuses are a whole lot easier to change than clothes. I cross my room, grab the bag with my books from my desk, plus bonus stake and holy water, and hitch it over my shoulder. Master Guard. Don't leave home without it.

Judgment call time. Looking for options.

I could tell her I'm going to the library to study, like I even know where the one outside of school is. And the one at school is in 'between crisis' mode. Well and truly closed.

Yeah. _No_. Buckets and mountains and oceans of 'no.'

As I bound down the stairs, showing no signs of stopping or even slowing down, the lie just comes to me, "Mom, I'm headed over to Willow's to study." Natural. Automatic. Pretty as you please.

Her answer smells of the same roteness. "Don't be out too late."

Yahtzee. I knew I missed this for a reason.

Besides the obvious reason.

I should be ashamed.

At the end of our walkway, I hang a 'west,' heading off into the sunset, mirroring the cliché finale of many a bad movie. The sky's kinda pretty. Peachy orange, pink lemonade blend like a ginormous smoothy. With the soporific pitter-pat of illusionary rain from the neighbor's sprinklers, some of the spring-like, too-tightly-wound tension in me melts away. Mostly it's just that I'm outside and there's nothing I'm supposed to be doing. Expectations: zero. Freedom is like a drug.

A couple of blocks and one left turn tell me I'm doing exactly what I told my mom I'd do. I'm just not doing it consciously. The scuff of my tennies against the concrete, the flow of the lines, one after another under my feet and the simple act of breathing, all conspire to lull me into familiar habits. I look up and I'm on Rousseau headed for Willow's, or if I hop one block over, the Restfield Cemetery, whichever comes first.

By this point, the cemetery always seems to sit up and offer me a convenient, not-so-cozy excuse. Never mind that there are quicker ways to get to there. Like the front entrance which is just a hop, skip and jump from my house. Going the extra mile is good for me. And the side entrance is—umm…charming in a Dracula's Castle, uber-creepy kind of way.

Whatever. The cemetery's a good excuse. One I've been using lots. It keeps my guilty conscience from navigating those last few blocks. Why take steps to fix things when there might be a monster to stab with a stick?

Not that I think I'll find any answers. Not that I have a single clue where to start. Stabbing is so much easier.

As I make the right that leads to stabby things—the universe, or my small corner of it—conspires against me. The gate shrieks, releasing a suspiciously Willowy shape onto the sidewalk just across the cross street ahead.

Actually, Willow isn't so much a shape. She's more a color. Chartreuse and fuchsia today. Fashion for the blind.

She hasn't seen me—what with the block separating us, lined by trees and cars. I could probably stand here and watch her walk away.

Which is exactly what I shouldn't do.

It feels like so much instant karma when I call out, "Wait up." I pretended to be sick and I got sick. But I can't very well let her walk home alone. It's getting dark. If something happened, I'd—

I could've tailed her.

Seconds linger seemingly like minutes. I feel like such a fool. Even from here I can see that she's curious, maybe even hopeful. Finally, the sickness takes hold and I go to her.

'Sickness' is right. I know as I pad up the sidewalk, I'll be kicking myself for this momentary lapse of reason before the night's out, yet the 'going' makes me feel happy. I'm _happy_ to see her, even though I know this is going to end badly. She scares the hell out of me, like none of the creeps on the other side of that fence can, yet here I am, grinning like the idiot I am.

I stop. She stares at me. I stare at her. We stare past the point of comfort, though that fled when I opened my big, now-unsmiling mouth. This is just bonus sickness. I draw a blank as awkwardly long as our stare. All I can do is wonder if this was something I wanted. Did I secretly, subconsciously follow this chain of events knowing I would end up here?

I don't know. But if that's the case, I must have something to say. Knowing what would be nice. Helpful even.

How about the obvious? The truth?

The wishy-washiness of my voice makes my, "I'll walk you home," more of an offer than a statement.

Some truth.

She doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she's happy to lead me to my doom.

I follow.

Now if only the silence between us was comfortable like it used to be. But '_no_,' this silence is full of all sorts of expectation. Unasked questions buzz in the air, making my skin crawl. She's going to expect me to say something. Sooner rather than later.

Not that she's in the wrong. I should have something to say for myself, right? What with my big disappearing act. I didn't even have the good manners wait around for her to tell me how much she loves me. That's the word that usually sends people scrambling. Scrambling pre-declaration was erratic, twitchy and weird, not to mention rude.

So what can I say?

Again, I could tell her the truth. I _should_ tell her the truth. I owe her that.

The trouble is the truth. To me, love isn't something you should even have to think about. It should just happen.

It didn't happen. Not in the way that she means.

Maybe it's just me and my silly expectations. I always saw myself married with children. And not in the Bundy sense.

My days of blissful conformity are over. Instead of a future, I got a grand destiny. And the hots for a guy who isn't exactly the family guy type. Can vampires even have children?

Probably not. Where would the sense be in that?

It's sad. I _do _love her. That part's easy. For all her jumpy, wiggy, weirdness, Willow's still one of the sweetest people I know. But could I fall in love with her?

Not so far.

So…

Do I owe her rejection?

Would we even survive rejection? The thought of losing her makes me feel—

So I chose the coward's way out? I pushed her away so I wouldn't lose her. Like that's even sensey.

The thing is that, if it was Xander, I wouldn't even think twice. Sad but true. Rejection for guys is just sort of something that happens. What worries me is not knowing how Will would take it. I know how it'd go with Xander. It'd be rough at first, but I'd let him down easy, and in time, he'd get over it.

It's different for girls. The guys who've rejected me haven't exactly remained on my radar. Not that there have been a ton of them. And none of them have been friends. I don't fall for my friends.

Well, except for that one time, but that was years ago. I was a kid. We both were. And we weren't really friends. We became friends after all the moping and the learning and…

_And_ I should say something. She hasn't, which means she won't. It's up to me to break the ice.

But how?

Oh, I know. I could make some inane comment about the weather.

Yeah, that'd go over well. I could shoot myself in the foot for an encore. Too bad I left my crossbow at school.

I snicker. She glances. The tension grows. Yay! Best of all we've still got blocks to go. But _hey_, at least it's a pretty night out.

_Yeah_.

The worst part is I'm not even sure if I want to reject her. I've never thought of myself as any other way other than the way I am. How would I know now if I'm some other way? I mean, I think Willow's pretty, even if she doesn't see herself that way.

Actually, the attraction is probably mostly that. She needs someone to show her. That part of this is something I'd love to do. I want to.

Rejecting her would go so well with that. 'Will, I think you're beautiful and wonderful and warm and kind, but—'

It'd make my life easier. Maybe. If she ever spoke to me again. Avoiding her was easy too. That doesn't make it right.

So, I don't know what I want, but I want to be around her and I want things to be uncomplicated.

_Oh._ And while I'm at it, I should ask for a pony too.

I don't snicker this time. She glances anyway. This is going well.

It's stupid to ask, "So how've you been?" I know, but it's the best I can come up with.

And it's a huge mistake. One glance fills me with dread. She's obviously biting her tongue. Not literally, because 'ow,' but—

"Good," she says. It's all too obvious from the overdose of 'chipper' she doesn't mean it. Like I needed another sign.

I say, "Good," too and mean it even less. Mostly because I feel like a heel on Pay Less pump.

She rewards my shortage of grace and sense with more silence.

And more.

And more.

And even more.

Not that it's quiet. We're still walking with all the subtle swishy, scrapy, thumpy sounds that involves. The town's awake too. It's full of people who are just as good at being quiet as we are. Better even. Add the dogs and cats, birds and squirrels, and quiet isn't something that ever really happens. Life goes on around us. In fact, the only thing that's actually is silent is us.

Not that we're quiet.

The silence between us is so far from comfortable that it makes our previous silence seem positively cozy. The silence that came before I decided that my foot might make a fine hors d'oeuvre for an entree of crow.

I wait.

I wait and I walk. I match her pace step-for-step, ignoring the niggling feeling that tells me that 'scarce' is where I really want to be. Not that 'scarce' is a place. Scarce is more of a region that includes anywhere but here.

I could be on a beach with—

The beach is good—a little unimaginative, but good—I like beaches—but my options for company are pretty slim. No one comes to mind. The standard celebrity lineup holds no appeal. Not right now. It's kind of fun when I play this game with other girls to try to pick guys who are not only cute, but seem interesting. That's fine for fantasy. Right now, for real, the only guy I can see myself on my fantasy beach with is—

He'd need one of those fire suits, the kind that makes people look like they're wrapped in tinfoil. And I'm not sure if it'd be to hold the fire in or keep the sun out. Anyway, sunny beaches aren't exactly his thing.

I think I'd rather be there with my friends. Giles would be funny. I bet he'd wear tweed. I'd ask him along just for that. And Willow would be happy. She'd be all bubbly and full of life. Xander would be silly. It'd be—

"I don't believe you!" Willow erupts, turning on me and almost knocking me back. "_How've I been? Really? _That's the best you can come up with?"

Go figure. Her place is almost in view. She has just enough time left to be scathing without attracting anyone's attention but mine. And she makes the best of it. Huffing and puffing…

"I've been doing great. All except for the part where my best friend can't stand to be around me. The part where I said 'good,' which was so obviously a lie that—"

…seething and ranting…

"But I'm too polite to say anything else. And my friend's so avoidy that she accepted my lie without even so much as batting an eye. It's no wonder that nothing ever gets any better."

…and I deserve every bit of it. "I'm sorry," I croak past the lump that formed in my throat during her tirade.

"So am I," she replies.

The frigid edge to her voice makes me want to crack even more. I don't. I plead with her instead, "I just don't want to hurt you," hoping against hope that she'll understand. Maybe she'll read between—

She comes back with, "You don't?" working to stare me to embers, "'Cause you sure have a funny way of showing it."

Being let off the hook was too much to hope for. I can't even bear to look near her, let alone at her. The only thing I can do is try to explain. Like I think that'll do a bit of good as mad as she is. I'm left with the truth after all. That's all I've got. "I know," I admit. "I'm just afraid that I can't be what you need me to be." I end up staring at a beat up, old, rusty-red car that looks as if the earthy, peacey, 'coexisty' bumper stickers are all that's holding it together. It's the sort of junker a teenager would drive. Which means it isn't junk at all. "I don't want to hurt you," I repeat, pleading. Maybe she'll understand now. "I don't want you to expect something from me that I'm not sure I can give."

Willow doesn't say anything. She turns and starts to walk. I match her stride again. She doesn't shoo me away or bite my head off, so I guess she doesn't mind. I follow along, so twitchy with anticipation her house sneaks up on me. Her patio—the one with the door to her room—is right around the corner. I could watch her go and know she's safe, but I cling to hope and trail along.

She leads me up the walk, through the maze of shrubs and stops by her door, facing me again. "You're not sure?" she asks. Her expression's totally changed. She's curious now.

I answer automatically without really being certain what I'm saying, "No," to. It's safe to agree that if there's something I should know, I'm not sure. That might even be a universal constant, like gravity or something.

"Does that mean you're willing to try?"

Her question jogs my memory. She's talking about the last thing I said. Funny, that feels like an hour ago.

"No," I reply honestly. "That means I'm willing to do what we were doing. I'm willing to spend time with you." I laugh. "Actually, 'willing' isn't right. I _want_ to spend time with you. I've missed you."

It isn't exactly the answer she was looking for. That isn't why she's giving me that look—the one with one eyebrow cockeyed, kind of sneery, but in a cute way.

I crumple like tissue paper. "I know. I know." What else can I do? "You're right. I'm the bad."

A little bit of time slips by. I use it to demonstrate my guilt with the right amount of sheepishness. It's the thing to do before I push my luck.

"Truce?" I ask, still hopeful.

"Truce," she agrees.

One of those proverbial weights lifts. I feel lighter. Happier. Better. Better than I have in weeks. Giddy even. So giddy I ask, "What are you doing Saturday?"

She responds to my change of mood, answering at first nonchalantly, "Nothing," then changing her tune too, "Nothing during the day, but I was planning a big night."

"Really?" My surprise shows, which isn't exactly fair. Willow having plans without me shouldn't come as some huge shock. It's actually insulting that I treated the news that way.

She doesn't seem to notice. Her dignity intact, she explains, "Yeah, I thought I'd pop some popcorn and watch 'It Happened One Night' for the millionth time." She's playing hard to get. It's kind of adorable.

"Well, I wouldn't want to disturb you," I reply, teasing too. "But I thought that maybe if you'd like we could—" I stop, starting to stammer, suddenly tongue tied, which _so _isn't me. It's weird. I get over it. "Umm…I owe you dinner…and maybe a movie."

"Okay," she agrees. "I can spend the evening with Clark Gable anytime."

I turn away, looking over my shoulder. "See you at seven?"

"Sure."


	7. Lines Crossed

**Summary:** More uncomfortable questions are asked.

**Rating:** FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count:** 2,155.

**Commas Brought to You By:** Howard Russell.

**Pairing:** Buffy/Willow.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

* * *

**Lines Crossed**

* * *

My march down the street is accompanied by a new mantra. I repeat the word 'stupid,' changing pitch each time I grumble under my breath. Without thought, a rhythm forms. It's pretty good. If I had a partner, we could totally gripe rounds.

Did I even make it a block before my 'stupid' meltdown? I glance over my shoulder to check. Nope. Will's house is right there, not even half a block away. I sigh. Head hung, focused on the cracks in the sidewalk—because Mom's back—_really_ important—I keep trudging. Like that even—

Go figure, I'm playing a kid's game instead of doing what I should be doing. It's dark. I'm two blocks from a cemetery in a town that makes Salem's Lot seem like Mayberry. I should be paying attention. I'm not. I don't feel like it. I don't care.

Just one more exhibit proving that I really am an idiot.

But not just your run-of-the-mill idiot, I'm a high functioning idiot. I could be royalty among idiots. Like that thing about the man with one eye and all the blind people. If there was a kingdom of idiots, I could totally be one-eye guy.

How could I be so stupid? We were doing okay. Did I really have to ask her out? She was actually _talking_ to me. Not yelling. We were _talking_ and I got all giddy. My brain fell out. It was dumb. Dumb. _Dumb._ Dumb. _Dumb._ _Dumb. _Dumb da dee dumb, _dumb_. Dumb, dumb.

Well, I can't take it back now. I have to go through with it. Make the best of it. Try not to lead her on any more than— Try not to lead her on anymore at all. _Period._

But I _am _leading her on. By definition, asking someone out is totally leading them on. Things just don't get much more on-leading. That's the problem.

_So._

_Oh_, I know. I could play sick. Like that'd ever work. She'd hate me if she figured it out. And the likelihood of that is—well, it's pretty likely. Like totally likely. I've never gotten by with playing sick. The whole 'playing' thing works so much better if you actually do the thing that you're pretending to do. I don't. At least not much. Not enough.

The sidewalk runs out. I have to pick a direction. A quick glance verifies that I am where I think I am. Which is good. Check: one ugly yellow house with a big, ugly urban assault vehicle in the driveway, right where it should be. Fantastic. I hate being somewhere I think I'm not.

I hang an 'east.' Mom will probably be curious what happened to my study session. She'll wonder what class I'm going to flunk, but I can't help that. It's not like I have lots of places to go not study.

I s'pose I could swing through the cemetery. Do my not job and all that. My head's not really in it, but after the day I've had, hitting something does hold a certain appeal. I turn around and head back to where I missed the side street. This time I might even pay attention.

Wouldn't that be novel?

What I need to do with Will is just level with her. Yes, food will be had and a show will be seen, but that doesn't mean anything. We aren't dating. There will be no dating. Nothing about what we're doing will be even remotely date-like, except—well, pretty much everything. She'll probably even hold my hand. And I probably won't stop her. I never do. I thought it was strange before. Kind of nice, but _strange_. Now?

Now I don't have a leg to stand on. I got over it. I decided I liked it. I've even initiated the hand holding. I miss holding her hand.

And that _so_ doesn't mean I'm gay. That means I like holding my best friend's hand. Not that there's anything wrong with being gay. I'm just not. I'm not attracted to her.

That isn't strictly true. I _am _attracted to her. We wouldn't be friends if I wasn't attracted to her. I'm just not attracted in that way.

That seems totally reasonable for all of five seconds, then—hypocrite I am—I try to imagine what it would be like to kiss her. My first thought is 'soft.' I've kind of had a preview—what with the cheek kissing. The softness wasn't unexpected. She is a 'she,' after all. Girls lack a certain level of scruffiness that guys grow into.

It'd be nice. Kind of sweet. I can totally see myself doing it. I just can't see it being the same way it was with Angel. Not that I've had the nerve to kiss him again. He's really yummy, but he scares the crap out of me. I know it wouldn't be the same with Will. I can't see her making me weak in the knees. I could kiss her. I might even enjoy kissing her. Kissing is an enjoyable thing. I enjoy holding her hand too. The contact is nice, but nothing about her makes me all warm and gooey inside. My heart doesn't flutter. There's no sparkage.

I don't think it'd be that big a deal, which is totally the problem. She would. She'd think it was a _huge_ deal.

Yeah, let's not. Talk about something that she could potentially misconstrue. The whole 'dinner and a movie' thing would be small—

From somewhere behind me, a guy shouts, "Hey!" He's loud enough to be heard over the herd of stampeding wildebeests that are bearing down on me from the same direction. I whirl before he gets to the, "Wait up!"

It's only Xander.

My hyperactive conscience kicks in, flashing my face hot before I register why. I put my hand to my forehead. Dammit. It is hot. And no wonder. Was I seriously thinking about kissing Will? What the hell is wrong with me?

And what does the size of a potato have to do with how important something is? Why is it that every common colloquialism comes off like a non sequitur? And if they are non sequiturs, why aren't they funny? 'Martin Luther King had a dream. Dreams are where Elmo and Toy Story had a party and I was invited.'

Xander's stampede comes to a graceless, thudding halt. He says, "Hi," winded, like imitating a dozenish odd wildebeests seriously cost him.

That was unexpected. I see his, "Hi," and raise him a, "What's up?" The unexpected part was the look he gave me. It was weird—one of those expressions that comes and goes so quick it makes you wonder. The whole 'facial schooling' thing takes over, wiping the evidence away. Quite a feat, considering all the knee groping and hyperventilating that's going on in front of me.

At least they're his knees.

He exhausts all available platitudes with the expected, "Nothing," while I wonder what he was thinking—with the look and the weirdness. What does he know? I mean, I am near Will's house. He knows that things have been weird. Does he get 'why' the weirdness? Has she talked to him like she does with me? One against the other. Wouldn't that be fun?

Whatever. That's not her style.

I turn away, gesturing for him to come along. He can if he wants. It might actually be a good thing. Considering my general level of preoccupation and resulting aloofness, he might just work as an early warning system should things go the way they usually go. Which is to say: wrong.

Our trek to the cemetery is pretty uneventful. Considering the fact that the gate was in sight, that's good. Xander's almost breathing normally by the time we get there. I reach into my bag and take out a bottle of holy water, which I toss to him. He catches it and I grab my stake.

I love this gate. It's big fun. The hinges announce our presence to everyone within a five block radius. The dead things are either running or congregating. I do what I usually do after opening it. There's a crypt to the left of the entrance. On the other side of that are a few normal graves and in front of them is another crypt. It's the obvious place to go. I wander over to my feeble ambush spot and sit down on the one headstone that gives me a clear view of the gate. It's a compromise.

What in my life isn't?

Xander joins me. It takes a few moments for me to get that he really wants to say something. He keeps trying to be sly, sneaking peeks. That doesn't go very far with me. I feel his eyes on my back and turn to break the spell. That repeats too many times for me to be comfortable. I wasn't comfortable the first time. By the fifth, I want to snap, 'What?' just to watch him jump.

He gets over it, takes a clue and deigns to ask, "Did you see Will tonight?"

"Yeah," I reply. Now I wish he'd kept his mouth shut. I don't want to talk about Will. Of course, what I want never really matters.

He gets this annoying, thoughtful look on his face. I glance again and happen to see it before the mask swallows it up. I wish he wasn't behind me. Not that he is. He's actually beside me, but considering where my attention is—on the gate, where it should be—he's effectively breathing down my neck. It's annoying. More annoying than pensive Xander. I guess it's been long enough. I turn to face him.

"Be careful with her," he says. "Please."

"Me?" I stammer. I want to say more, but—

"You," he confirms.

I'm not the one who— The whole time I've known you two, Will's been throwing herself at you. She's been wondering what's wrong with her. Wishing, hoping, pining… She's totally smitten. And you?

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I reply. Does the word 'blind' mean anything to you?

It's me I don't get. I shouldn't be in this. I mean, yeah. I get the 'friends' thing—the 'confidante' thing. That part's understandable. Expected even. It's how I got promoted from spectator to participant that has me totally stumped. I feel like I missed the geriatric patriarch bellowing for me to 'come on down.'

I also realize how unfair this whole thing is. Xander's been nothing but a friend to Willow. No mixed signals. No 'friendly' dates. He doesn't even hold her hand. Not usually. Not casually like I do. He's actually innocent, which must be a new experience for him.

I'm not.

And _oh, boy_ is this fun. Xander has his searching look on, like he'll ever figure me out. I can't. Why should he be any better at it than I am?

The gate is a much easier thing to watch. It's safer for us, because _vampires_, and it's _way_ less judgey. The introspection's another matter. I'm sick of introspection. Trying to figure out where I went wrong is an ongoing hobby that I could totally live without.

It's time to go. No one's coming. I hop down from my perch. The thudding sounds tell me that Xander's following. We weave between headstones and crypts, making our way to the main entrance. I could practically do this in my sleep. It's weird that I feel at home in a cemetery—one of the many signs that my life is just too screwed up for—

"Are you gay?"

Aghast, I whirl on Xander. "What?" I snap. "_No_." Could I be more defensive?

He looks at me as if to ask that very thing.

_Great_. Just great! He generalized. I overreacted. Now he thinks I'm gay.

He takes a step back.

I unclench my fists. It's a good place to start. Not threatening my friends.

His eyebrow's cocked, questioning. I have no clue what to say. I turn away, keep moving, keep going. I need to get out of here. A few headstones and a crypt later, the perfect thing comes to me. I give him a taste of his own medicine. "Are you?" I know he isn't, just like he should know I'm not, but I can't help myself.

I give him a sidelong glance, accusing him with my eyes, just like he did me. He's actually considering my question. He's taking the moral high ground, acting mature. It makes me want to hit him. I stop and prop myself against yet another headstone. This place is nothing if not consistent.

He takes the one in front of me. "No."

That's it. That's all he says—straight-faced and everything—leaning casually against Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael's grave. Xander's totally secure. I'm the one with the problem.

That does it. I'm done. I spring to my feet. "I'm going home."


	8. Crossing the Rubicon

**Summary:** Even the longest journey must begin where you stand.

**Rating:** FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count:** 4,236.

**Commas Brought to You By:** Howard Russell.

**Pairing:** Buffy/Willow.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

* * *

**Crossing the Rubicon**

* * *

I lean in, wanting to use the window in Willow's door as a mirror. The light inside is just too bright. My reflection's washed out against the glow through the white, semi-sheer curtains. My hand shakes a little as I arrange my bangs with my fingers. I think I'm straightening them out, but I'm probably just messing them up. At least they aren't in my eyes.

No clue why I'm so nervous. Probably because, last time I did this, Will had a major meltdown and everything got a little—uh…_different_. More than just a little. I don't even want to think about it. As far as I know, everything still is _different. _Kind of 'grrr.' Why I'm doing it again is anybody's guess.

Oh yeah, I'm doing it because I'm stupid. I'm the dumbest dummy in all—

The light goes out. Stunned, I step back. The door swings open. I didn't even knock. Willow's umm…

"_Wow_. You look—" She looks older, like more mature. Like—umm…_wow_.

I take in the dress. It's uh…sleeveless, antiquey beige taffeta with monochrome floral print, black accents… It's umm…_understated._ Willow knows something about understated? She's heard the word? I guess, because _evidence_. I witness the evidence dubiously. The dress isn't so much what draws the eye as what's in it, which is _so_ not her style. But it's not so not her style that it clashes. There's no cleavage. The hemline's below her knee. It's umm…_tasteful_, but cute. She looks great, in that 'Peggy Sue Got Married,' retro, girl-next-door sort of way. She's just adorable.

"You're—" A million questions careen through my head, choking my voice, bouncing around like Pachinko balls and generally making a mess. "Wow." Mostly what I want to know is 'how,' but 'what' and 'why' might be useful too. "Well, wow, just _wow_." Did someone help her pick it out? Did she go to a boutique and ask the sales clerk for help? That's possible.

I look down. Her shoes will cinch it. If they're big ugly brown clogs…

They're cute too—super strappy, Romany sandals that match the piping on the dress. Yeah, she had help. She even has a little clutch purse that's again not very Willowy. It's not fuzzy or pastel. It doesn't look like a stuffed animal. It's uh…

_Normal_.

It occurs to me that I really haven't looked at _her_. I've looked her over, but not at her. Now I'm almost afraid to. I make myself look up. Something about the way she's smiling at me is vaguely predatory. My mouth's hanging open. I clamp it shut. At least I'm not drooling.

This new Willow could've gone one of two ways. She could easily look like she's dressed in her mother's clothes. That's how she _should _look. If she was at all responsible for the makeover, that's how she _would_ look. But maybe that's not fair. She has some fashion sense. Really bizarre fashion sense. Definitely not _this_ fashion sense. This is way outside her purview.

The fact that she went to a salon is made glaringly obvious by her hairstyle: sort of a modified Geisha, all artfully curvy and curly and up in a bun with a black headband to match her dress. I'm not sure I could've done that to her hair and I'm good.

Willow _actually _went to a salon. I run that through my head a few times, chewing it over, hoping it'll sink in. There's no sinkage. The idea scares the hell out of me. I'm not even sure why. She's a girl. A salon trip is a good thing. It's progress. She should enjoy pampering herself as much as any other girl.

It still doesn't work for me. But she did. The evidence is right in front of me. There isn't any other reasonable solution. And I'd say they did her makeup too. It's way different. She looks older. She looks responsible. She even looks a little bit sexy.

Yeah, this is totally scaring the hell out of me. Somewhere in the interim my mouth went dry. The implications are _way_ wigsome. She cared enough about tonight to—

"You look amazing," I croak, because I should croak something. I should at least finish my though. Or _thoughts_? I just wish it hadn't hurt so much. Were there thoughts? Did I share my thoughts? I think I shared them. I think I babbled. I think she's already gotten the point.

I feel like an idiot. _Again._

"Thanks," she says, shutting the door.

I take the offered hand. What choice do I have?

I expected to find Willow in her bathrobe, despondently relocating the contents of her closet to her bed. We've already been through that once. She must've decided that doing it again would suck. I concur. But I didn't expect her to grow up. She looks _grown up_. It's a total curve.

She says, "You look great too," conversationally.

I don't feel it. I feel horribly underdressed, like I missed the memo that our date was to be formal. Not that she has on a formal, but what she's wearing is—

She doesn't look like a teenager. At least not so much. She looks almost sophisticated, which for Willow is a total noodle twirler. If she acts like she looks, I may have to consider the possibility that the Hellmouth had something to do with her makeover. This could be pod Willow or something like that. I might be holding pod Willow's hand. That'd be bad.

'Kay, so…lets shelve that for the moment. I'm going to reserve judgment on the 'pod Willow' thing until she opens her mouth. If she screeches, I'll worry.

I do. Not worry, the other thing. I look like a pretty average teenage girl—a fact that sometimes bugs my mother. She never says anything, but I know she isn't thrilled by all of my fashion choices. Like this one. I'm wearing a white, sleeveless mini-dress that might not be the best choice for kicking pod-people ass. It's actually pretty conservative except for the degree of its mininess. I thought it was cute when I picked it out. It covers everything it should, but if I bend over…

So I just won't bend over. I don't bend over anyway. That isn't something a girl should do. I think Mom gets it. This is what girls wear. I fit in. I—

I don't fit in now.

Well, it's too late to go home and change. Will's dragging me down the sidewalk. Somehow she's taken charge. She's leading. I'm following. I must've missed another critical piece of info somewhere, an update, a clue. I'm—

She stops abruptly two houses down from her place, still holding on to my hand so inertia whips me around to face her. She looks worried. "Sorry," she says, "I didn't want to stick around the house. My mom's been on the warpath. She thinks I got dressed up to go out on a date with some boy. I got the full lecture about what a waste that is."

"I'm failing to see the waste," I mumble.

But she just chatters right over me, "The last thing I need is for her to see you. I'm not sure Mom would put two-and-two together, but I'd rather—"

"Yeah, that might be best," I reply. This time she actually hears me.

"I think so," she agrees. If she registers my relief, she shows no sign. Sometime during the splainy, her behavior transformed from 'agitated' to 'excited' in that bubbly, Willowy way. Subtle difference. Good difference. No pod people present. "So what do you want to do?" she asks.

* * *

I slip past Buffy, still clinging to her hand, towing her along. I need to keep moving. If I don't, all this kinetic energy that's just kind of bouncing around inside me might go 'boom.' Could be messy. Moving is good.

Moving, not too fast. Moving, like strolling. I'm playing it 'cool.' A little of the inertia bubbles up, collecting inside my chest—all frothy and full of guffaw. All I can do is hold my breath to tamp it down until it passes. I've never been cool before in my life. I've watched. I know what it is to be cool. But 'knowing' and 'doing' are two totally different things. Somehow 'cool' always comes out 'spazy' when I try to be it. I get excited. I say something stupid. I trip over my feet. Tragic miscalculations are a big thing with me.

I'm strolling now. Tragedy free. Look at me go. Still strolling. I'm not sure where I'm going. She hasn't said. That might be a problem, but I'm going to go wherever we're going at a leisurely pace. I _will _pull this off. I won't wig out. I'll be normal. Yes siree. That's me. _Normal._

Grinning like a fool isn't cool or normal. I try to stop and find that my facial muscles are convinced that grinning is the thing to do. She said, 'Wow.' The grin sneaks back into place. I snuff it out. It sneaks back. Her reaction was just too—

"Well, food was mentioned, offered or otherwise inferred, right?" Buffy replies, finally, like she's on some sort of time delay. "I did say 'dinner,' didn't I?" Maybe she's just not sure if our plans have changed. I sort of threw her for a loop. The loopiness might've gotten in the way.

I glance sidelong at her. She's amused too. Actually seeing her face is nice, but it doesn't wipe away the memory of the loopiness. Her lips formed this pretty, kissable 'o.' Total victory. Points to me. I surprised Buffy. In the good way. She said 'wow.' She said 'wow' lots. Another flash of pride makes me giddy. She said I look 'amazing.'

Still grinning. I can't help it. "Food sounds good," I say, hoping I sound unconcerned, casual, cool as a cucumber…if cucumbers squeaked. My face flushes. It's the beginning of the end. The apogee in my spiral toward impending geeky doom. I pulled off two, maybe three minutes of actual coolness. I should be pleased. That's a new personal best.

"My mom mentioned a restaurant that she has lunch at sometimes when she's at the gallery," Buffy says, still in conversational mode. She sounds totally at ease, like she didn't even notice. "I thought it sounded good. Do you have anything against vegan food?"

I glance again. She looks like Buffy—a contented Buffy who might even be relatively happy. Relaxed even. It's totally weird. 'Warning flags' and 'caution lights' weird. Alarm sirens should be whooping, like in some disaster movie. She was so twitchy, so distant. What changed?

I haven't changed. I still think that she's one of the most beautiful, wonderful people I've ever met. My heart flutters a little when she smiles. When she smiles at me, it flutters a lot. I get all woozy in the head, short of breath, giddy, happy…goofily so. Not that that's happened bunches. She's been totally evasive, elusive, slippery as an eel.

Now she's holding my hand. We're walking down the street almost like a couple. We're marginally coupley and she isn't wigging out.

Her grip on my hand changes. I think she's going to let go, like my thought has somehow caused a psychic upheaval. She's honed in. She's going to withdraw. _I_ was holding her hand. I took hold. It was me. I initiated the handholding. I slacken my grip, giving over to whatever she wants. Something shifts in an unexpected way. Now she's holding my hand. She laces her fingers through mine. Her grip snugs, clamping my splayed fingers. She actually wants this. What changed?

"Willow?" she says, concerned. She's giving me a questing look.

Okay, so…maybe she's wigging out a little, but that's just because of me—because of how I'm acting, not because of the fact I'm here and handholding is happening. Self-consciously I curl my fingers over the back of her hand, willing myself not to feel so unwilling. I'm not. Just the opposite, actually. Her skin is so soft and warm under my fingertips. It makes me want to caress—to savor its texture. I don't.

I lick my lips, trying to wet my whistle, stalling, scraping the bottom of my mental barrel, scrabbling to remember what was said. She was talking about food. I couldn't eat now if I tried, but that's what she wants. That's why we're going out, so… "That sounds fine." Unfortunately, I sound a whole lot less than 'fine.' Clearing my throat has little effect on the frog that's taken up residence somewhere around my vocal cords. It's called all of its froggy friends. They've moved into my tummy where they're doing froggy gymnastics and giving me the willies. I feel—

I feel her attention. Finally, after a sizeable, calculating pause, she asks, "Are you alright?" She sounds so concerned I—

So much for calm, cool, collected 'me.' She flew the coop, leaving behind the 'me' who's terrified that whatever's happening is some sort of spell. Not actual magic, but a situational spell. The kind of condition created by the right precarious concoction of social alchemy. The perfect, delicate balance of human elements, perceived emotions, celestial alignments, ambient temperature, mood lighting and other extremely sensitive, esoteric stuff.

Alright, so…sodium street lamps don't really count as 'mood lighting,' but whatever. This is still the kind of illusion that could easily be broken with one wrong word—one false move—the sort of thing that I do all the time. The sort of thing I'm doing right now and I haven't said a word.

Well, okay, I said three—three words that were obviously a problem, not because of what they meant, but because they weren't meant. I'm such a fibber. How can I be expected to maintain all this pretense? My feet practically sublet space from my tongue.

She's glanced at me five times in the last minute. I need to say something. "I'm doing okay." Forming these words—these three harmless, innocent, utterly commonplace words—is hard. They might've smoothed things over, if they were actually true. They aren't, so they came out thick and muffled. Pretense be damned.

I'm not entirely sure why my eyes are burning. That old, familiar, highly annoying pressure's moved in behind them. Tears collect. If I blink, I'll end up looking like Pierrot. That'll show me. See what I get for trying to act cool? For no good reason whatsoever I feel like someone took a scooper—like for ice cream or melons—and scooped out my heart. That sounds painful, if not a little gross and just a smidge melodramatic, but it matches what I feel: hopeless, empty, bereft. It makes no sense. She's still with me. She's worried about me. Silly, stupid me, all I can seem to think is that she's going to leave me again. I'll say or do the wrong thing. She'll run away and never look back. It's ridiculous.

She doesn't. She keeps going. We keep going _together_. She ushers me along. I follow, caught in a weird sort of trance where I watch the sidewalk—my pink painted toenails as they peek out from beneath my skirt—peeking out of my toeless shoes—one big toe at a time, back-and-forth—and try not to feel what I'm feeling. I focus on the brush of soft fabric as it swooshes around my thighs, the warm breeze that caresses me head to toe when cars pass us by, the clip-clop of our heels, the gentle rise and fall of our steps, the gentler rise and fall of my chest—breathe in, breathe out—the rush of air flooding my lungs, the sounds of engines, people, insects, animals, _life…_

Several, many minutes later, she stops abruptly, doing the same thing to me that I did to her. As I swing around, I get the first look I've had at my surroundings in blocks. Several blocks. More blocks than I expected. We're almost downtown. I had no idea. My sense of time is completely bamboozled. It feels like forever ago when we left the house, but just a few minutes. Really, it hasn't been more than ten, probably more like five, judging from our surroundings.

Her hands close around my upper arms. She cranes her neck, stooping down, tiling her head, trying to see my face. That approach only lasts long enough for her to ask, "Are you okay?" Dissatisfied, she puts the edge of her index finger under my chin and lifts. Our eyes meet. I look away, try to slip away, pull away. I don't want this. I don't want her to see how upset I am. I—

"What's wrong?" she asks. All of her efforts to wrangle me stop. "Did I do something wrong?" She sounds hurt now. Confused. Upset. She can't understand why I'm freaking out.

I'm not sure I can explain it. The tears break free and roll down my cheeks. Now, I've done it. How can I tell her that what's wrong is that I'm afraid she'll leave me again?

Of course, if I don't tell her, she probably will leave. She'll decide I'm more trouble than I'm worth. Either way, I end up alone.

* * *

"I don't want to be alone," Willow snivels as she totally falls apart.

'Snivels' isn't fair. That makes it sound like she's throwing some sort of pity part. She isn't. I'm pretty sure that 'oh, poor me' doesn't even apply. She's just really, really upset. So upset it's hard to make out words between her gasps and sobs.

I should do something. Making up my mind isn't that hard. My options are limited. I tempt fate by going for plan 'a' and coax her into my arms. She doesn't resist, or resort to fisticuffs, so I move on to the 'attempt to offer comfort' part of my brilliant plan. Backrubs seem reasonable. She doesn't flinch, so I guess…

No clue what went wrong. She was fine. In fact, she seemed better than fine. She was confident and cheerful. I've never seen her more in control without a computer to hide behind. Now she's soaking the curve of my shoulder and neck in steamy, salty sogginess.

Did I do something wrong? She never answered me. Maybe I did. I'm afraid to ask again. I think my best bet for weathering this storm is to continue rubbing her back. That kind of says 'I'm not a threat.' Even animals get that.

Well, an animal that was this upset wouldn't. It'd try to take my hand off. Maybe I should rethink my stance on the 'backrub' thing? I like my hand. The moment I stop, she pulls away. It comes to me that I was probably wrong when she takes a shuddering breath. I wait for it, sure she's going to let me have it. I'll get my answer and more. A real earful. _Joy._

"It wasn't something I did," she says, hiding her face by becoming really interested in the nothing that's going on down the street. "If it was, I'd understand. It'd be my fault." She isn't screaming so far. That's probably a good sign. "It'd be something I could've helped. I could've done something different." I have no clue what she means. "But I can't help how I feel." She grows progressively more agitated as she explains, drawing away, turning away, so it's no surprise when she explodes. "It isn't fair! It isn't fair that I should be punished for caring for you! That's all I did and you ran away. You abandoned me. You left me and it hurt. How is that fair?"

I was holding onto a little sliver of hope, but as she goes from ramble to rant, I see how naive that was. And _bonus_, I feel more-and-more like a heel. And I'm _angry_. Both at once. It's quite the juggling act. The two emotions war for dominance. She isn't the only one who's not sure how to feel. I thought we were past this. I'm pretty sure I called truce. And I'm equally sure that she accepted. She obviously forgot. I stare at her back. She's hunched over, hugging herself. I must've really hurt her. I feel awful. _And I'm annoyed as hell._ She doesn't get that, by feeling the way she does, she's making demands of me. She's taking something from me. She wants to complicate things more than they already are. I think they're complicated enough.

Well, okay, maybe complication isn't something she wants, but she sure is asking for it. I don't want to lose her. I love her. Admittedly my feelings are more sisterly. Selfish thing I am, I think that's the way it should be. That what I feel is correct. But turn that around and what I'm saying is that what she feels is _incorrect_. Who am I to judge?

What can I possibly say or do to make things better?

"I'm sorry," seems like a good place to start. I add, "I won't leave you," for good measure.

She glances over her shoulder. "Really?"

It would've been better if she's managed to put a little gusto in that 'really.' You can't have everything. I need to say more. I should explain. "It was wrong for me to avoid you. I shouldn't have." That's fair. I'm still scared of what's happening, but I guess I can't avoid it. I can't avoid her unless I want to hurt her. Thing is, I'm not sure I won't hurt her if I stick around. This just sucks. Why can't my life be simple? All I wanted was to finish school. Maybe go to college. Have a life. Meet a guy. Make a place for myself in the world.

Instead, I'm saddled with a big fat destiny that comes with the extra added benefit of multiple attempts on my life. I have a couple of wacky sidekicks. One them's in love with me. Not unexpected, except for the plot twist. I have an over-the-hill, crotchety, know-it-all, English librarian for a mentor—but I guess I could shorten that to 'English librarian' and pretty much say the same thing. Basically, my life's turned into the plot from a bad horror flick.

And now I'm mad again. Yay! "It's not fair, Will. Do you know how many people are placing demands on me?" I huff. "Too many. I kind of hoped that you and Xander wouldn't, but I guess I was just kidding myself."

Will turns on me, indignant. "I'm not asking anything of you," she shouts. Her brow crinkles in consideration. So much for anger. "Well, other than what I asked," she amends. "I want you around. Is that too much to ask?"

The urge to grin almost blows my chance. I have a point to make. Grinning would be counterproductive. "Don't you see? You're making demands of me by doing what you're doing. You need me to return your feelings and I'm not sure I can do that."

I've never seen her so mad. It falls over her face like a quick-moving shadow, shocking the cookies out of me. What did I say? All I did was tell the truth.

She tries to storm away so fast her parting shot isn't even complete, "Well, if I'm such a burden to you—"

My mouth drops open in shock, but my reflexes still work. Peeved, I snatch her arm to stop her. "Would you hold on?" I snap. Apparently her running away isn't a problem.

Her back's to me. She doesn't turn around. As she draws a breath to yell at me, I cut her off in exasperation, "Can't you see how scary this is for me? I feel like if I can't care for you the way you need me to, it'll hurt you. It'll hurt me too. It feels like anything I do I will be wrong. I just want my best friend back and I'm not sure how to get her back. I feel like I'm losing something precious. It's being taken from me because my emotions aren't right. They aren't versatile enough or whatever. It hurts." A nervous smile slips though the piles of angst I'm barely holding back. "I'm afraid I'll let you down. How silly is that?" I want to laugh, but choke it back. "You're right. It isn't fair."

I let go a sigh. "I need a break," I admit.

She glances over her shoulder. It's weird. I swear she looks crestfallen. How does that fit? I thought she was running away. My statement—how she took it—those two things should go really well together, not that that's what I meant. What I meant was: "Not from you. I just need a chance to figure this out. Please?"

Her snit breaks right at the end. It's the 'please' that does it. I s'pose that's good. At least something does the trick. Before what I want really registers, I say, "Please," again. I'm holding my arms out and down. I want to give her another hug. Presumptuous considering, but she turns to face me. The distance closes. I take her in my arms. This is weird too. I'm not a huggy person, but right now I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing.


	9. In the Crosshairs

**Summary:** Infatuation is fire in the foundry of hopes and dreams.

**Rating:** FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count:** 5,482.

**Commas Brought to You By:** Howard Russell.

**Pairing:** Buffy/Willow.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

* * *

**In the Crosshairs**

* * *

I swear this night just can't get any worse. I fell apart over nothing. _So_ stupid. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Now we have vampires. Why do we have vampires? We didn't need vampires. Not after—

I was such a flighty, fiddle-footed, fluttery, foolish, flitter-brained, stupid, _stupid_ girl. Buffy called what happened a 'false start.' She's being so nice it's almost creepy. She isn't that nice.

As if to validate my point, she kicks vamp number one square in the chest, ejecting him from the street in a staggering, pinwheeling, curb tripping show of vampiric disgrace. Mid-stagger and flap, his Stetson jettisons and goes pinwheeling too.

She isn't mean either. She just usually isn't this understanding. It's really strange.

The vamp busts his butt on the sidewalk just down from me and I don't even flinch. I normally flinch over stuff like this—what with me being a total wimp and them being all strong and fangy, not to mention bloodthirsty—but he's a klutz. I was worried, but—uh…

Vamp number two tries to grab Buffy from behind. My heart leaps into my throat. Somehow I shout a warning around it, "Look out!"

She doesn't need me. She turns on him with the graceful fluidity of a ballet dancer. Only ballet dancers who do that pretty, pirouettey thing usually don't clobber people with their fists. He reels. She mocks, "Does Elvis know you raid his wardrobe?"

Huh? She saved the snide comment for the second one? _Seriously_? I mean, I guess his suit is pretty bad, but—

Not Elvis', this guy's. But there aren't any rhinestones. It's just a plain white leisure suit that actually reminds me more of the Miami Vice look than of Elvis. Not old Elvis. He had that scary, Chianti bottle physique, with the huge belt-buckle, muttonchops and enough bling to blind Liberace.

She must've meant young Elvis. But how would our stylistically challenged mystery guest raid young Elvis' wardrobe without a time machine? It doesn't make sense. Between young sexy Elvis and old spangley Elvis, he kind of aged, really badly, and then he died. Maybe if the vamp had darker hair the jibe might work for me, but he has—

_Oh_. Maybe Elvis is a vampire. The image of old Elvis with his hubcap belt buckle half covering his bloated blood belly is a little much. It makes me queasy.

I guess he could be. He could be hiding out almost anywhere as an Elvis impersonator and nobody would notice. It could even be a good thing. Maybe he hit the gym and got his, saggy vampy butt back into shape. At least the peanut butter and banana sandwiches wouldn't be such a temptation. Maybe he'll come out of the coffin someday and do a resurrection tour. That'd be nifty. All of his fans could pretend that they 'forgot to remember to forget.'

While I'm staring blankly, mulling over Elvis' possible afterlife, Buffy set Leisure Suit Larry on his keister long enough to dust the one who took fashion cues from Buck Owens. This is pretty bad, like she's fighting the vampy Village People. All they need is a construction worker and a person of questionable Native American heritage in severely phony ceremonial dress.

I just wish I didn't feel so useless. All I'm really good for is shouting warnings and encouragement and I haven't even been doing that. Well, I'm holding her purse and shawl. I'm good for that. The squishy, fuzzy crocheted yarn draped over my hands presses against my belly with my purse. It hides the white-knuckled grip I have on my purse. You'd think I was nervous or something. Her purse is slung over my shoulder. I'm a glorified coat rack.

Moments later a grunt from her snags my attention, proving that I'm a little more lively than a coat rack and inspiring bushels of guilt. Not to mention buckets of fear. My heart flutters like a caged bird. She's off-balance after taking a hit and the vamp's right behind her. As he makes a grab for her, I do my job. "Buffy!"

I'm not even sure how he got there—how she got there—how she got distracted enough to get punched and nabbed. I scan the area for something to use as a cudgel. There's nothing. Not a stick. Not a scrap. _Nothing._ Before he can chomp down, she fixes the issue with a kick. Her foot hits his face over her right shoulder. Wow. She's really flexible. And she's wearing pink lace panties.

This is just wrong! The briefest of glimpses and my cheeks flame up hot enough to stop traffic, if there actually was any traffic. Good thing there isn't any traffic. I wouldn't want any old anyone else getting a peep at—

I should've stuck with mulling. Mulling was much, much safer.

Buffy 'uhs' one last time and that weird hissy, vampy, self-combusty sound tells me that the fight's over. I'm a little too busy hanging my head in shame to watch the fallout, though I've always thought it was really nifty. It's one of those things that happens that makes no rational sense. The idea that piece of wood can act as a catalyst to make flesh—in all its soggy, soppy, saturated goodness—catch fire with such intensity as to spontaneously combust goes against the basic tenets of natural law. It was the first magic I ever saw—proof that things don't always conform to the norm. I was fascinated. I'm still—

"Are you okay?" Buffy asks as she approaches the tree I've been keeping company.

'Kay, so…I've been hiding behind it, but what does she expect?

Apparently nothing. She sets about relieving me of her accessories without so much as a scornful word or even a funny look. She wants to know how I am. She's concerned.

I muster what conviction I can and reply, "I'm fine." Completely useless, but fine. Nervous as a cat in a dog run, but just fine and flipping dandy.

She takes my hand and apologies sheepishly, like my dad does sometimes when the office calls during family time. It's really strange. I tell her, "It's okay," just like my mom does, and she tugs me into motion.

"We have time," she says, glancing at her watch. "The restaurant doesn't close till ten."

I wasn't worried about it, but she's back in 'nice' mode, so—silly me—I want to ask. I'd like to understand why. I'd almost rather know why than have the 'nice,' but I also understand exactly how monumentally stupid it'd be. Last time I asked someone why they were being so nice to me, Xander put a frog in my sleeping bag. I shouldn't have, but he was making me nervous. Figures, when I asked, he went the other way. It was awful.

Buffy's been attentive, like actually, really interested in me. She comforted me. She fixed my makeup. She made me laugh. Looking a gift horse in the mouth would really be dumb. I don't think she'd resort to assault by amphibian, but I do think she'd back off. I don't want her to back off. Maybe I should just get over it. Enjoy it.

And if I was the sort of person who could leave well enough alone, that'd totally sound like a solution, but I'm not. I want to know why. That's always been my problem. I need to know what makes things tick. Figuring this one out would be above average nifty. It might even be part of the formula to finding actual happiness. I like it when Buffy's nice to me. I feel safe with her. It'd be perfect if she wasn't so darned cute. If I didn't get all fluttery. If only her being too nice didn't turn me into a tragic ninny. But I guess that's my problem. All of this is my problem. I should just let her be nice.

"What are we doing?" I ask, thinking that claiming some of the responsibility for our 'doing' might moderate the question. Really, I just want to get her talking. Maybe if she does, I'll be able to figure it out without committing any gross acts of schlubbery. I really can't leave well enough alone.

"We're going to dinner," she says, turning peevish, "_Finally_," then flustered, "Is that alright? I'm starved. Are you hungry?" It's cute.

"Yeah," I reply, finding that I'm actually am hungry now too, like _really _hungry. I'm a little disappointed though. I was hoping for a more existential take on the question. She went literal.

She continues to go literal. "Mom says they have a great portabella mushroom burger. That's what I'm going to have."

Maybe after she'd done thinking with her tummy, I'll ask again. For now… "That sounds good."

* * *

I make a fist under the table, stretch my fingers and wiggle them. They hurt. Stupid vamps. Can't I just have one night's peace?

Will sits beside me, perpendicular to me, holding my other hand out of sight beneath the table on her lap. I want some space. Space I can't have. There are too many people. The tables are too close together. We're stuck in a corner. My back's to a fence. It's weird to feel so pinned down, stifled, hemmed in, claustrophobic…

I'm not claustrophobic. Not even a little. I never have been. I'm outside. I should be okay.

I'm not okay. Not even a little. The tall boarded fences around us seem to swim, wavering in and out, breathing as my eyes wander from one potted plant to the next, slipping over the people in between. I want to slip free just like they did from my gaze. I didn't hold them. I wasn't rude. Why should they hold me?

They don't. She does. I'm held here by my desire to preserve her feelings. She makes me feel caged. That isn't fair, but I can't help how I feel.

Well, her and food. I'm starved. I wish they'd hurry up already.

My attention lands on the table, not her. The fruity salsa stuff she ordered as an appetizer is gone. It was good—more of a fruit salad than a salsa, with chunks of mango, papaya and even grated coconut. The dressing they used on it was citrusy and spicy. I wish there was more. Next to the empty, elongated, kidney-shaped dish/bowl thingy is a basket with a single overlooked chip, sitting in a scattering of crumbs on the red wax paper liner. I pick the chip up.

The pressure of the presence of the people around me closes in. It's weird. People have never wigged me out before. I like people. They worry me now. Have they noticed how she looks at me? Do they understand?

That shouldn't worry me. _They_ shouldn't worry me. I haven't done anything wrong. Even if by some freakish fluke, I gave her everything she wants, I wouldn't have done anything wrong. I need to get over it.

I slip my hand from hers to stand. Every eye turns to me as I do. I'm committed now. "I'll be right back," I say and take a bite of the chip, feigning nonchalance. The attention turns the chip to paste in my mouth. I swallow. It catches, drags, gags, rests like a knot in my throat.

Okay, so…I'm stupid. They worry me. What if one of them knows someone I know? Sunnydale's a small town. What if that someone's my mom? What will I say? I almost sit down. I won't be the center of attention if I do. I drop the bitten chip back into the basket and try to pick up my Coke. My hand is so unsteady I pull it back and give up.

I stare at where my hand rests on the table. My heart runs like a startled rabbit in my chest. I just need to get out of here. I need a minute to breathe. A minute away from the press of bodies and roving eyes—the clatter of their silverware, the groan of their chairs, the incessant drone of their chatter. I'm overreacting. I know I am. I'm wigging out over nothing. I take a long, slow breath to steady myself. I'll be fine. Our food should be on the table when I get back. It'll be great. I'll eat something and feel even better. I'll be okay. I just need some time to regroup.

Willow watches as I wiggle around, weaving between, freeing myself from the wall, the press of neighboring chairs and planters, like playing a people-size game of Operation with me as the funny bone. A raw nerve, that's a good role for me right now. If they'd allowed more room for people than plants, it might be different. I smile at Will in a way I hope is reassuring. The way I feel, I probably just grimaced. She returns my grimace. On her it looks coy. I reassure her, "I'll only be a minute," and turn to stride across the short expanse of patio.

She can't be enjoying this any more than I am. Will isn't a people person. At the best of times, new people—certain people—make her nervous. She's really only comfortable with a few people. There are at least twenty strangers out here packed in like sardines. I have to pass half of them to reach the door. The breeze when I open it rustles my hair. As I pass through, air rushes out.

Inside, the restaurant's dimly lit and chilly. The air conditioner must be set on 'arctic.' We should've sat in here, even if the place is reminiscent of an antique ice chest. It'd feel more open if the walls were painted something lighter. They're sort of a dusky olive. It chokes off the space, which isn't that big to begin with. All the wooden thises and thats and cluttered knickknackery are a little too much. Too little. Not enough other textures besides wood and dusky velvet drapes. It's supposed to feel intimate, but I don't like it.

Y'know what? Whatever. I'm not their interior decorator. What does it matter what color the walls are?

The four or five people who were smart enough to stay inside and suffer the frigid temperatures and crappy ambience have all had a good look at me. I've smiled reflexively. It's time to move on. There's a restroom around here somewhere hidden among the junk shop décor. With any luck it'll be single occupancy. As small as this place is, it might be. It might be the size of an airplane restroom. At least if it is, I'll be able to lock the door and be alone.

I know it isn't in the foyer, so there's only one place it could be hiding. I make my way across the room, turn down the short hallway that leads to the kitchen and don't quite run into the waitress who steps backward through its swinging doors. I duck out of the hallway and wait for her to pass. She isn't our waitress, but I look anyway. The plates are full of rice and pasta dishes. They look and smell wonderful. My mouth waters. I have time. That much is good. The starving part—not so much.

After all of the weirdness and the near collision, locating the restroom isn't hard. It's the only place it could be. Both doors are on the wall opposite the kitchen. When I step inside the second, the one marked with the appropriate signage, I find I'm not alone.

Of course not. That'd be too easy. There's a woman—pretty in that 'Mary Ann' kind of way, maybe a little older than me, but not much—powdering her nose at the washstand between the wall and the first stall. Our eyes meet in the mirror and she gives me a closed lipped smile. I don't recognize her. We'll call that good, considering. Maybe count a blessing or two.

I grin too, or try. I can see myself this time. I don't look happy. My smile looks forced. I look like I could kill someone. Her expression picks up a little angst. She finishes up and clears out with smooth efficiency. With two stalls, there's barely enough floor space for me to step aside and let her pass. I think the closeness is what's setting me off. Part of it, at least. Violating my personal space is a matter of necessity here. There isn't enough room for anyone not to. Add to that getting jumped by a pair of vamps just before we got here, and waiting half an hour for a table, my patience is positively anorexic—famished like me.

I go to the mirror, turn on the water and cup my hand beneath the stream. It's been a great night. The bathroom's cold, like a meat locker, colder than the rest of the restaurant. The water I bring to my face is bracing. I run my hand around behind my neck. My skin's hot there in spite of the chill. Hot enough it warms my hand. I repeat the process until it's cool. Tension eases with each frigid touch. Water drips from my chin into the sink. I look into my eyes. I still look miserable.

My dress is pretty. At least there's that. Simple, white, floral print cotton. Simple v-neck cut. Simple flowy skirt. Changing wasn't simple or pretty. I felt like I was on stage. Why do things have to be so hard?

I really need to get over this. Get a grip. Get over _myself_. It's just stupid. No one out there cares about us. They've barely noticed us. And Will, for her part, has been a total sweetheart, diffident and kind, except for the part where she wasn't. But so what if she got upset? I was upset too. This is upsetting. It's supposed to be. But if we keep this up, we're going to tear each other apart. Or more like, we'll tear the two of us apart. We'll end up apart. I really don't want that. I want to figure out how to fix it. Maybe outlast it? Whatever it takes. I just don't want to let her go. She means too much to me.

I pull a couple of paper towels from the dispenser and blot my face. My makeup suffered a little from the bath. And of course, I forgot my purse.

It'll be fine. I look okay. Nothing's smeared. My cheeks are flushed more than they were, but that's probably because of the water. My skin's still cold to the touch. I tense to stop the shivers. It's time to go. I poke the waded paper towels through the springy, swinging stainless trap door next to the sink marked 'trash' and turn to leave. The air that hits me as I exit the bathroom is warmer and filled with good and yummy smells. I feel better. My thoughts are clearer. Nothing about me races. And nothing's actually changed. _Weird._

I return to our table, but instead of sitting in the same seat, I pick the one across from Willow. She gives me a funny look, almost hurt. "I want to be able to see your face," I explain.

"Oh, okay," she says, still looking a little hurt.

I give her a sympathetic smile, but my heart isn't in it. Being able to see her is good. Not seeing anyone else is better. Not having my back planted against a wall is best by far. I move my Coke around in front of me and take a sip. Our food still hasn't come. "I wish they'd hurry up," I mumble. "I'm hungry." I haven't eaten since noon. That's part of my grumpiness too. My tummy's starting to hurt.

"I am too," she admits in an even softer voice than mine. She smiles sheepishly. Complaining about stuff like this isn't Willow's style. She's usually more patient than I am. More understanding.

I smile again. This time, fueled by the surprise, I actually manage. It feels warm and genuine. I really do love her. She makes me happy…when she isn't making me crazy. Sardonic humor meet wry grin. One follows the other. My smile transforms.

Will takes a sip of her Sprite and looks up to meet my eyes over the rim of her glass. She smiles too. Only with her there's a difference. Nothing about her is jaded or derisive. She positively beams at me. The intensity in her eyes lays her bare. I should be the bare one—what with the intensity—but she isn't scrutinizing me. She doesn't need to. She's already decided. There's warmth, affection, longing—not raw, just a sliver of desire—all plain to see. She really cares for me. She wants me.

I should be ashamed of myself.

That last part should freak me out. It doesn't. The heat in her eyes isn't lusty. It's simpler than that. I could lean across the table right now and kiss her and I'd make all of her dreams come true. That's all she wants. She wants to touch me—to share the affection she feels.

I don't—kiss her, that is. No affection sharing for me. I don't even move. Just knowing is enough. She really does love me.

* * *

She caught my gaze. Now she won't let go. I know how I must look. I know what I was thinking—what I'm still sort of thinking. What I shouldn't be thinking. She's just so beautiful. She has such pretty, smoochable lips. She hasn't looked away. She doesn't look disgusted. I sit frozen under her curious gaze. She lifts an eyebrow. My breath catches. She's teasing me. Heat rushes into my cheeks. I turn away.

And our stupid waitress is right there. Great timing. Thanks for that. Sharing my embarrassment with complete strangers is always such a treat. At least she gets Buffy's attention. She's way more interested in food than in little ol' me. She tells the waitress that 'everything's alright' and that it 'looks good' while I do my best to sink between the cracks in the paving stone floor.

I s'pose the food does look good. It's not exactly what I wanted, but that's my fault. I didn't really look. It was easier to follow Buffy's lead than to make up my own mind. A veggie burger's fine. Following her example again, I remove the top bun and take off the onion. There's too much of it. Big thick, icky rings of the stuff with shiny purple skin. It's pretty. It's also pretty gross. Too pungent. I remove the pickles too and replace the bun without drowning it in ketchup. That's Buffy's thing.

She passes me the bottle as I unfold my napkin and place it in my lap. I take the ketchup and put a dollop on my plate for the fries that aren't fries. The not-fries are French fried veggies, every kind of tuber imaginable except for potato. They look almost as pretty as the onion, which probably means I should keep the ketchup close. The first one I pick up is tawny with funny grayish freckles. I think it's rutabaga. I'm going to need lots and lots of ketchup. I take a bite. It has a sharp, unusual flavor that's just not very good. I force myself to swallow. Buffy gives me a curious look. I must've been making a yucky face. I say, "Yellow turnip," hoping that'll explain.

She lifts an eyebrow. There are at least two bites missing from her burger already. She's going to be finished before I get started. Then she'll sit and watch me eat. It'll be awkward. I pick my burger up, using both hands to support its hugeness, and take a bite, hoping to head that off.

We settle into eating, quietly completely occupied. Not that we've been overly chatty since we got here. Not that we've been chatty at all. Buffy's been too distant and moody for me to think chatting was a good idea. I wonder about that as I avoid the freckled tubers. The rest of the food's good. I like the sweet potatoes. They're better without ketchup.

As predicted, she finishes first. She finishes so fast I wonder if she'll burp, maybe pat her belly, pound her chest to make a burp come, or just ask for another burger. She disappoints me on all counts. Our waitress passes by with refills. Buffy responds to her with another polite, "Thank you." Otherwise, she's silent. She spends her time watching all sorts of things, none of them me. I can't tell exactly what she's looking at other than when she spends a good minute examining at her sandal. I almost ask her if she's alright then, but she cuts me off, hissing, "Stupid," under her breath.

"What 'stupid'?" I ask.

"Nothing," she mutters dismissively.

It isn't 'nothing.' I know that tone. She's mad at herself. I don't press her. My courage isn't as strong as my curiosity. I keep to myself, eating my burger and nibbling my fries, trying to identify each type of tuber. I'm a pretty boring girl. The orangey ones are still the best. The only good news is that the place is clearing out. There are only a couple of couples left when I finally finish almost ten minutes after her.

Our waitress, seeing that I'm done, comes over to take my plate and ask, "Can I offer you two some desert?" By question's end, she has a bright, 'charming' smile plastered on her face. It doesn't quite reach her eyes. Poor girl looks beat.

"Yeah, sure," Buffy answers, turning her attention to me. "Will, you want something?" She's wearing a similar smile, false, but friendly enough.

I give her a one shouldered shrug that's as much a head tilt and they begin to negotiate for goodies. The list is pretty extensive. The poor waitress—who seems bored by the task, having most likely done it a hundred times tonight—makes it as far as cheesecake before I've heard enough. If it were up to me, I'd stop her, but Buffy still looks interested.

Watching her makes me feel contented. I know how I must look. I shouldn't. I should be good with a stranger standing so close. I just can't help it. She makes me feel all warm and gooey inside—melty in the middle like a grilled cheese—umm…only not icky, sticky and yellow.

That was kind of gross. No more similes for me. I'm swearing off. My yucky face returns in full force, wrinkly nose and all. The moment's passed.

Buffy doesn't even look at me. Good thing too. It gives me time to school my face. When the waitress falls silent, she says, "I'll have the strawberry pie with ice cream on the side and a cup of coffee."

The waitress looks to me and I ask for, "Plain cheesecake and a cup of coffee," adding a, "please," for politeness sake. I shouldn't have the coffee. It's too late. I'll be up all night, running laps. But it sounds so good.

After the waitress leave us, Buffy falls back into her pattern of silently scanning the fence as if she's looking for a gap she might slip through. That's pretty much how this has gone. I'm not sure what I expected, but it wasn't this. She seems malcontent to the bone.

It isn't long before the waitress returns to break her funk with caffeine and sugar. At least there's that. I just wish there was something I could do. I pour creamer into my coffee, gauging the color with a swish of a spoon, add a scant spoonful of sugar and stir. It's easy to see how this is going to go, _again_. Buffy's already attacking her pie. She stops when I set the cream pitcher down to doctor her own coffee. I take the barest little bite from the point of my cheesecake, just a taste. It's creamy, rich and wonderful. I suck on my fork where the cheesecake worked its way between the tines. This much is good. My fork is cleanish when I pull it from my mouth. I hold it poised over my cheesecake.

This is going to seem—well, I'm not sure how it'll seem. I—

"How are dates supposed to go?" I ask, throwing caution to the wind. I have to do something. _Say_ something. "I mean, I don't know. I haven't— I don't— I'm not—" I sigh. My fork drops. The tines spear my poor cheesecake all crooked. I pull them out. "I don't have much experience," I admit.

Buffy gives me a cockeyed grin, looking amused as she scrapes ice cream up with the edge of her fork and stabs a berry. She slides the fork into her mouth. I watch a little closer than I should. My spirit sinks when she raises that same, mean eyebrow. She thinks I'm amusing.

"Okay, I don't have any experience," I admit, giving in to the truth. It isn't like I have lots of choice with her looking at me like that. "Killer demon robots and you. That's it. And Moloch doesn't so much count—what with the demon and the robot part." I slab off the marred part of my cheesecake, nice and straight, and play with sectioning the weirdly speared part into bite-sized bits. I can't look at her. It serves. I'm busy, or I seem it. "I don't know what to expect—how it should be."

The next part's hard. I take a bite of my cheesecake to stall, savoring it like I did the last and washing it down with a sip of coffee. It's heavenly…and distracting. It makes me want to give up, give _in_ to the yummy goodness, not speak my mind. Speaking my mind never goes well for me. I always end up in trouble. I make people mad, or I make them laugh at me.

Strawberry pie has Buffy's interest now. She's forgotten me. I suppose that's fair. When I sigh, she looks up, interested.

I meet her eyes, steeling myself to ask, "Is this how things should be, because—well, umm…?" Her brow crinkles. I soldier on. "I'm not saying this hasn't been nice. It really has. It's just—"

"It's what?" she interjects when I stall.

"It's been a little weird," I reply. "I mean, I get it. I understand why. I'm not upset at you. I know you've tried. You've been really nice." Too nice. Weirdly nice. "Is the weirdness usual?" When I make it to the end without upsetting her, I almost breathe a sigh of relief.

"Sometimes," she says, looking thoughtful. Her fork upside-down in her hand with the tines curved down, she causally toys with her food.

"Well, what do you do? How do you undo the weirdness?" I ask as she stabs the poor berry she was playing with.

She holds it up over her plate. Sugary, syrupy sauce mixed with ice cream, pink and red, drip from it. I watch that instead of her as she answers, "Like this usually. Well, not exactly like this, but talking is good. It helps with the comfort. Not all the time, but most times. Getting to know—y'know?" She pops the berry into her mouth and I nod.

Silence follows. Too much silence. And lots of irony. I puzzle over what else I could say as I enjoy my cheesecake. There has to be something. I'm just not sure what. I should ask her something else. Get her talking. She's comfier when she's talking.

"I hope you find someone. You deserve someone who'll be good to you." Her statements hit me like a slap out of nowhere, bring tears to my eyes just that fast. I choke them down. Wipe them away. What she's telling me is 'no' in a roundabout way—all while doing another berry the same way so does me—toying with it. How nice for her that she can do both—that she doesn't even have to look up to cut me to the quick. That she can do that in such pretty, melodious, sympathetic sounding tones just seems wrong.

I'd prefer that she didn't—look at me, that is. She might at any moment. I don't want her see me like this.

I look away just in time to see Our Lady of the Worst Timing Ever approaching the table _again_. She looks at me and my face flashes hot. I turn back to find Buffy smiling at me, just one corner of her mouth twisted wryly. As I wonder how she can manage—how this could possibly get any worse—she says under her breath, "Xander's a fool."


	10. Cross Examine

**Summary:** Xander ponders sainthood and the potential effect of Pythagoras' theorem on his dating prospects.

**Rating:** FRT: Mature Themes: Parental Supervision Suggested.

**Word Count:** 1,597.

**Commas Brought to You By:** Howard Russell.

**Pairing:** Buffy/Willow.

**Disclaimer:** Another day, another…they don't pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That's what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.

* * *

**Cross Examine**

* * *

I turn the corner onto Revello Drive just in time. From like almost a block away, Buffy flies out the door of her house—at least I assume that's what she does from the clatter and the way she tears to the end of the walk, turns in the opposite direction, and—well, _shoot._ I even a glance. Things always go this way. I should've called. Like planning ever helps. Besides, what was I going to do, ask Will if I could borrow her phone?

I call out, "Buffy, wait up," trying not to sound tired. Being heard would be useful too. That little bit of extra gusto— It's not like I can catch her if she—

Dammit. She doesn't. She must not've heard me. Either that or she's ignoring me. I try again, a bit louder, "Buffy!" and take off running. A little exercise is exactly what I need. The perfect end to a perfect evening.

She slows, and with perfunctory poise, half turns, looking expectantly over her shoulder, ready to go again the moment I catch up. I swear she should be tapping her foot.

Meanwhile, God really does hate me. Really, sainthood should be in my future. 'Saint Xander' has a nice ring to it. Patron saint of…

Of what?

Of the infinitely patient men who befriend the most irrational of creatures: otherwise known as women. Of men who are by definition already saints. That works. Of course, my jog up the block, which is actually, more accurately a slog, makes me think I need to rethink. Underachievers are what I'd be saint of, if the sainting occurred.

I arrive panting, exhausted, ready for a nap, or at least a snack, a comfy chair and some quality time with the remote. Instead, I get to question, and probably threaten, one of the most dangerous women in the world.

Oh, I like that. It makes what I'm doing sound almost daring. A death-defying discussion with—

It might actually be. She kinda is. Somehow, in the last ten seconds, she's managed to look even more impatient and she still isn't tapping her foot.

Okay, so…here goes nothing. "What did you do?"

That came out a whole lot more biting than I meant for it to, which is probably why she gets defensive. "What do you mean 'what did I do'? I didn't do anything."

I decide to go with it. "Well, neither did I." Might as well.

"Good," she retorts. "Glad we got that straight. Now, if you don't mind, I—"

And with things going so well, I need to just cut to the chase, "Willow's pretty upset." It's either that or let Buffy go. "Are you sure you don't know anything about that? You were with her last night." If the look on her face is any indication, I might've been better off letting her go. "There was the whole thing with the excitedness before, and after—well, not so much."

"Yeah, I know," she grumbles. "I just don't see what business it is of yours." The best part is how she looks away. She won't meet my eyes. She even folds her arms.

Busted. And her arms, they make a nice frame. But I won't be totally shameless. It is nice cleavage. Some of the best at school. I appreciate her cleavage for…

There. I'm done. Now, I should make my case—tick off a few points without the nifty visual aids, because she isn't watching. "Willow's my friend. You're my friend. You saw her. Now she's having a meltdown. It was my shoulder that got wet. That kind of makes me involved." If she was, I would've totally been using my fingers. As it is, I just plant my fists on my hips. No sense in rubbing in my somewhat unfamiliar position on the moral high ground. The view's nice up here. I could plant a flag. Maybe stick around. Maybe sneak another peek at—

Nope, she's looking at me now. And I'm looking at the ground, like she was. Moral high ground, you were nice while you lasted. I mumble, "I'm just concerned, okay?" _Great._ Now I feel like a heel and I have no idea why. I didn't—

"I get that," she says as I try to figure out what the heck to do with my arms. I hate that. Not knowing where to put them. I could cross them like she did. Lucky for me, she takes pity on me and starts walking. Or that's how it seems. We walk. I swing my arms. She talks. It's good.

"I just don't get this. Why does it have to be so hard?" Her speechifying hits a hiccup. We exchange glances. No surprise, she looks disgusted. "Not this right now. This thing. I mean, _everything_. It's like life just has to get extra complicated with me. Like I signed up for the advanced 'life' class. Like—" Movement from her draws my attention. It must be bad. She's racking her hair back. "You remember those placement tests?"

I nod. "Yeah, I hated those," I mumble, like it means anything at all.

She ignores me, quickly picking up the thread of her own thing. "It's like I tested really well. Now I'm some s'posed to be sort of protégé at living. I'm not. I want to drop a level. Enjoy a little life one-oh-one for a while."

"Okay." I get what she means. She does have a little more than most of us. "But—"

"I told her the truth. That's all."

"Well, there's your problem. Honesty's never an excuse."

I hate it when this happens. That was meant to be funny. I thought it was funny. I even smiled. She didn't. We've covered another half a block. I don't really remember it happening. I've been a little busy trying to figure out how to follow up my faux pas. All I've got so far is 'what truth?' but I can't ask that. I know there was affection and rejection. I got that much. And umm…

It suddenly seems important to ask, "Where are we going?" Or at least it's something to talk about.

"I'm meeting Giles at the cemetery just up here," she says, pointing vaguely ahead of us and to the right. I know which one she means. I can't remember the name either. It's a small one. There are so many. "Mom thinks I'm going to the library—that he's going to try to help me study for that test tomorrow. She's got it half right. We're doing a history cram session while we wait for Mary Potter to wake up and do the Thriller shuffle. Remember her? I think we had bio together. I'm not sure. Anyway, she's—"

I interject, "Porter," but Buffy's too wrapped up in sighing to hear me. She's right. Our lives really do suck. How many places can you grow up in America where it's perfectly normal to lose a classmate every couple of months to monsters—in this case vampires, or probably 'vampire'?

I don't know, though. Maybe it is normal. Maybe it happens all over. Maybe Hollywood is the only place that makes a big deal over kids disappearing. I've only ever seen it in movies. I've never lived anywhere else. I never even thought about it before Buffy.

She said something else. I have no clue what. I should get to my point before we meet up with Giles. Actually, I sort of want to skip the Giles part. It isn't like I want to go home, but there are worse things, and when I think of those worse things, the words 'study,' 'test' and 'Giles' often come up. The idea of waiting for a classmate to return from the dead by digging her way out of her own grave while being grilled by Giles—yeah, there are hells that sound better. A little flaying, some fiery torment and—

_Yeah_, **_so_**_… _"Y'know, I know," I say, coming to a stop, because suddenly the idea of getting any closer to that graveyard….

Buffy stops too. She even looks attentive.

"You're the slayer and I know you could pound me into the ground, but I have to say this. It's a thing—a 'male ego' thing—which incidentally, the fact that you could pummel me into the ground is really hard on. Willow's my friend and you're my friend, but you hurt her, so consider yourself threatened."

"Duly noted," Buffy says. She even smiles, which is—

I'm not sure. If it was a happy smile, I might be, but I'm not. She looks so miserable. I guess it's no wonder with the history and Giles and the—

"I didn't do it on purpose," she says, but her expression suggests a rethink. "Okay, I did, but I didn't. I didn't—" She stops mid-thought and studies me. I try not to show how nervous it makes me. I have no idea what she's thinking, other than the obvious 'this is none of your business' thing she touched on earlier. She wants to know how much I know. I know too much. I know more than I should know, but only because—

"Never mind," she says.

I should tell her I know. She needs someone to talk to. This has gotta suck for her as much as Mary Porter and the pending history grill-a-thon with Giles. It's a little late though. She's walking away. I should stop her. I should tell her that I understand. Maybe she'd see me as more than—

I let her go.

How did we end up here?


End file.
